


Precipice

by RenGade



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Complicated Relationships, Environmentalism, Friendship, Gen, Magehood, Magic, Major Illness, Politics, Red Lyrium, Remix, Rite of Tranquility, Writing Meta
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2020-12-24 13:21:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21100139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenGade/pseuds/RenGade
Summary: Clementine Trevelyan, a former Circle mage who once had no magic to speak of, adjusts to the incredible power of the anchor and the reality of finally being someone who is noticed, all the while accepting the anchor will eventually kill her. Meanwhile former Viscount of Kirkwall Lavender Hawke, desperate to save her family before her time runs out, joins the Inquisition and tries to make peace with her illness and her fractured relationship with Commander Cullen Rutherford. Cullen, for his part, finds lyrium abstinence difficult and is unsure if the woman he once had feelings for is friend or foe. Varric is struggling to finish his next novel after the runaway success of the Tale of the Champion, but above all else, he wants his best friend to finally have a happy ending.





	1. Chapter 1

Varric Tethras roused in the late morning, having fallen asleep with a sheet of parchment on his chest. The top of the sheet was filled with scribbles and crossed-out lines, the bottom half was empty. His ink well had tipped over during the night and there was a pool of dried black ink on the edge of his bedroll. Ink was not so easily come by these days, as he currently resided in an cold, overcrowded mudhole with limited access to supplies, but the writing had been so bad lately the wasted ink didn’t even bother him. He briefly considered his heavy woolen Inquisition cloak, as he always did, and rejected it, as he always did, deciding on one of his favorite silk shirts and the promise of Haven’s crisp mountain air against his bare chest.

He lifted a hand to shield his eyes as he opened the tent flap and squinted in the winter sunlight. The Breach loomed high above, an ominous, turbulent presence in the sky. Bright green energy flickered and lanced along its contours like lightning crackling over the surface of water. Its low rumble echoed across the Frostback mountains, punctuated by the whistling of wind.

Varric had long been aware the Veil separated reality from the Fade and kept spirits and demons from passing over, but as a dwarf he’d had little occasion to think about the Veil until the Conclave explosion ripped a massive hole in it. The Veil was generally only visible when it was damaged in some way. He’d lived in Kirkwall his entire life and hadn’t appreciated the subtle greenish sheen over the ocean at sunrise and sunset was an indicator of environmental damage.

Hawke once told him the Veil was not a barrier so much as a force, like a vibration, and demons were prevalent in Kirkwall because ancient blood magic rituals had weakened the Veil’s vibrations in that area. She was explaining why they couldn’t turn a corner without tripping over a demon or an abomination, but what she’d really impressed upon him was the cumulative, long-term effect of magic on the environment. All forms of magic weakened the Veil over time, but for some reason blood magic caused the most damage.

Varric knew firsthand that bad shit happened when the Veil was weakened, so he could reasonably conclude an actual tear would be much worse, but it was one thing to know it in the abstract and quite another to watch a rift open and vomit out a few demons on the road in front of you. Suffice to say, the Breach was ruining the scenery. Not that he’d ever been big on nature to begin with.

Reorienting his attention to the ground, which was far less disconcerting, Varric went to investigate the dregs in the pots at the cooking fire. They contained potatoes and meat, again. “Fereldans and their roots,” he muttered, stirring the wooden spoon as though it might make the mush within marginally less gray.

He tromped up the muddy, snow-strewn path to the tavern. As the Inquisition’s ranks grew the Singing Maiden became increasingly crowded, but in the early morning it was usually quiet enough for writing. He took his customary corner seat and spread a small map of Ferelden on the table. He located the nearby town of Redcliffe and studied the surrounding landmarks, refreshing his memory on the topography. There had been some discussion of the Herald traveling to the Hinterlands and that discussion included him tagging along. He was on Seeker Cassandra’s bad side, having declined to divulge Hawke’s whereabouts, and he didn’t feel like he was in a position to refuse. It wasn’t far, at least. Maybe he would learn something new about red lyrium he could pass along.

Varric resisted the urge to dig into his satchel for Hawke’s last correspondence, a sketch of a lonely dock on a lake bordered by rainy hills. She hadn’t sent any drawings in a few weeks. For all he knew…

“Good morning,” Flissa said, putting down an ale.

“Morning, Flissa,” Varric said, taking a drink. Fereldan ale was heavy and malty, almost black. It had taken some getting used to after so many years drinking the coastal lagers back home. He now understood why Hawke always referred to the Hanged Man’s drink as water. By comparison, it practically was.

“The scouts haven’t brought me any fish today,” she said. “Stew or sausage?”

More meat. These Fereldans. “Cheese and bread, if you’ve got it,” he said, taking another drink. He pulled his most recent draft from his bag and spread it out on the table. The parchment was riddled with crossed-out sections, arrows redirecting paragraphs, and notes that consisted mostly of question marks. The arrows spelled doom. Their presence meant the draft was too disorganized and he was forcing the plot rather than allowing the story to develop naturally. He had to write, it was a compulsion, but at times like these writing depressed him almost as much as it sustained him.

He’d abandoned the sequel to his bestselling Tale of the Champion because he couldn’t bear to write about Hawke after the coup. Since then he’d discarded several drafts and was currently working on an untitled political thriller about an Orlesian ambassador and a military commander. The story was uninspired, bog-standard genre work but he had to give his publisher something so he kept at it. The ambassador was a great character. The commander was a composite based on the Knight-Captain Callen character from his previous book, but as he wrote he found himself overlaying the character with all the things he missed about Hawke. The result was a muddled mess. He’d considered scrapping the commander character entirely and pairing the ambassador with a heroic mage, but writing another character based on Hawke only made him miss her more. He continued to wrestle with it, going around and around with the commander’s characterization, refining the plot points, fleshing things out. Still, nothing worked. The novel was a mess at this point, probably not even salvageable.

The door behind him opened and a cold draft blew in. For a moment--

Of course, it was never Hawke, but he always had a split-second hope she’d come waltzing into the tavern with an ill-timed joke or some ridiculous scheme at the ready, as she had so many times before at the Hanged Man. He turned to see Commander Cullen stamping the frost and mud off his boots at the doorway.

Getting away from the heraldry of the Templar Order had done Cullen some good. The uniform he’d chosen for himself--a simple breastplate, plain but sturdy leathers, and heavy winter surcoat--suited him much better than templar steel. It had taken Cullen years to grow into the Knight-Captain’s armor and the Knight-Commander’s plate that followed was too angular, too palpably heavy. He was still young for his rank but he didn’t look like a boy playing soldier anymore. Seven years managing Kirkwall’s Gallows had aged him, thinning his face, emphasizing the dark circles under his eyes, and flecking his otherwise boyish auburn curls with premature gray, and he’d acquired a few scars, to say nothing of whatever emotional traumas he’d suffered under Meredith’s watch.

“Hey, Curly,” Varric said, over his shoulder.

“Varric,” Cullen said.

To say he had mixed feelings about Cullen would be an understatement, but after several conversations on the boat across the Waking Sea Varric had grown to like him. Varric pointed to the opposite bench with the tip of his quill. “Take a load off?”

Cullen accepted the offer, sitting heavily on the small bench. He mopped the ever-present sweat on his brow with a handkerchief. “Is it me, or is it getting worse?” he asked. He was referring to the Breach but he might as well have been asking about himself. He was increasingly haggard-looking these days.

“It’s definitely getting bigger,” Varric said.

“Commander, breakfast for you?” Flissa asked. She smiled at Cullen in a way that suggested she’d like to ask about more than breakfast. It had been like that in Kirkwall, too. Cullen tended to draw eyes.

“Thank you, but I broke with the troops,” Cullen said.

“Come on, Curly,” Varric said. “You’re the Commander. Live a little.” To Flissa he said, “Messere, your finest Fereldan meat salad.”

“Anything for the Commander,” Flissa said, still smiling at him.

“Thank you,” Cullen said, his usual polite indifference now tinged with impatience. Flissa took the hint and glided away. Cullen wiped his brow again, realized his hand was trembling, and moved it under the table.

Varric first noticed the tremors several months prior. He suspected there was an issue with the lyrium supply. Cullen was the sort of commander who would restrict his own rationing if the troops were also restricted, but as a former templar officer his needs were probably greater than those of the rank and file knights. “What’s on your mind, Curly?” Varric asked.

“Have you spoken to Trevelyan about Kirkwall?” Cullen asked.

The Herald had indeed asked Varric about Kirkwall and Varric told her just enough to make himself useful without giving up too much. You never knew when you might need to keep a few secrets for yourself. “You’re asking if I’ve told her about your time at the Gallows,” Varric said. “Surely she’s read the report you gave the Seeker.” Kirkwall’s Gallows, which had been as much a prison as a Mage Circle, was now infamous as the seat of the Mage Rebellion. Its reputation certainly preceded it. Little doubt Trevelyan had already heard plenty of things about it, probably all bad.

“She requested clarification on several rather specific points,” Cullen said, sounding tired.

Varric laughed. Trevelyan was a bit socially awkward, a bit intense, and more than a bit interested in her templar Commander, and his writerly imagination had no shortage of ideas on how that particular interrogation might have gone down. “I see. What would you like me to tell her?”

Cullen’s gaze grew remote and thoughtful. He was considering how to word it. He said, “I only want to make sure we have a mutual understanding.”

“Sure, perfectly reasonable. I’ve got a few questions about what happened there myself. Maybe if I heard your side it would be easier for me to understand.”

Cullen sighed. “I have no interest in providing more material for your books.”

As if. Cullen rarely provided anything juicy. Varric always took liberties to make Knight-Captain Callen’s chapters more interesting. “Look, I understand why you might want to gloss over some of the finer points. I get it. And for what it’s worth, I don’t want to dwell on that shit either. The Gallows was a mess, you did what you could. I’m happy to leave it at that.”

“But,” Cullen said.

“But I need you to tell me what happened with Hawke. Say what you want about Knight-Commander Meredith, there wasn’t a coup on her watch. You supported Hawke as Viscount, then you two began locking horns and you withdrew support. You knew that would weaken her position.”

Cullen rubbed his forehead. Varric waited. Cullen had to know he would ask eventually, surely he had prepared.

Flissa arrived with bread and cheese, which Varric happily broke. The bread was heartier than he was used to, but it went well with the fresh cheese, which was rich and creamy with a nuttiness that paired well with fruit, assuming you could get any on this freezing mountaintop. The Orlesians must have resented the fact the dirty eastern barbarians had superior dairy. Surely that was why they’d invaded this cold, wet country all those years ago.

“Enjoy, Commander,” Flissa said, setting a plate of boiled sausage, turnips, and potatoes in front of him. It was quite a few steps up from the gray goop most of the people in Haven had for breakfast. Only the best for the handsome, young, and reputedly eligible Commander of the Inquisition’s armed forces.

“Thank you,” Cullen said. He didn’t touch the food. When Flissa was gone he said, “Hawke and I were not on good terms at the end, I fully admit that, but I would never condone harming the Viscount and if I’d been aware of any such plot I would have done my utmost to thwart it.”

“If she were overthrown it would make your job easier as Knight-Commander,” Varric said. “You could replace her with a puppet who actually bowed to the Order’s wishes, like Dumar before her.”

Cullen frowned. “It wasn’t like that,” he said.

“Okay. What was it like?” Varric asked. “You helped her gain the throne, then you withdrew your support and openly opposed her. She said talking to you was like talking to a stone wall.”

“I had to focus all my attention on my duties,” Cullen said, stiffly. “The security of the Gallows, and by extension Kirkwall, was my primary concern.”

“You knew openly opposing her initiatives would weaken her authority and hurt her claim, that’s exactly what Knight-Commander Meredith threatened to do to Viscount Dumar. You put a target on her back. What did you think would happen?”

“I admitted we were not on good terms at that time. I knew many templars resented the fact that a mage had been placed on the Viscount’s throne. I should have been more vigilant.”

Cullen said, “placed on the throne,” as if Hawke hadn’t worked for it, hadn’t bled and fought and sacrificed her personal wants to protect Kirkwall. Varric let that go for the moment and waited, tapping the edge of his quill against the table. It was an old trick. Silence weighed heavy on the guilty conscience.

“There was a lot of chaos,” Cullen continued. “We were attempting to rebuild and keep our people safe. I knew nothing about the plot until Guard-Captain Aveline sent word the Viscount was gone. As you well know, the ones responsible had been taking red lyrium against my orders and they were arrested and punished.” He wiped his forehead again. “But you know all that. I’m not sure what more I can tell you, Varric.”

“Just so we’re clear, you’re confirming you had no idea templars under your command were taking red lyrium or planning a coup. A coup happened right under your nose and you were completely blindsided by it.”

Cullen’s gaze was unwavering. “Unfortunately, that’s correct,” he said.

“If I didn’t know what a clusterfuck the Gallows was, I might find that hard to believe,” Varric said. “You said you weren’t on good terms with Hawke.”

“Yes, but I trust she’s already spoken to you of it.”

She had once, insomuch as Hawke ever spoke of anything personal or painful. During one of his visits Varric asked about Cullen in a roundabout way. Rumors were circulating and he’d grown concerned about the tenor regarding “that mage” on the throne.

Hawke mentioned Cullen had become a wall and added, “Bran was right.” She’d taken her gloves off and was cradling a glass of water in her magic-scarred palm. Her other scars and tattoos were concealed by impeccably tailored robes. “Commoners do not understand.”

Varric was slightly surprised by this. He had never known Hawke to be classist. “What do you mean?” he asked. They were alone on her balcony with small plates and wine. There were no servants in evidence and the Viscount’s guards were safely tucked away in the hall, affording them a rare private moment. Hawke could have confided anything to him. Instead, she lifted the glass to her lips and said, “Maybe I was the one who didn’t understand.” And that was the end of it. She said no more.

Varric studied the tired young man across the table. Despite Cullen’s reticent nature he had always been vocal about his beliefs and he struck Varric as emotionally honest and sincere. What misunderstanding could they have had? What did Cullen’s status--or lack thereof--have to do with it? Hawke had never cared about such things before. “Like I said, I want your side of the story.”

“Where do I even start?” Cullen asked, exhaling wearily. “She worked against me from day one. She blocked us from securing the alienage, she--”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Varric said. “What happened between you two?”

Cullen broke eye contact and pushed his plate aside. “If you want to know about Lavender’s personal life you’ll need to ask her,” he said.

“So you admit there was something personal between you.”

“I should think that was obvious,” Cullen said, rising to leave. “It appears she hasn’t confided in you after all. I would have you put any other questions to her directly.”

Having nothing to lose, Varric plowed ahead. “Did you ever stop using her? Did you ever, even once, put Hawke or her interests before your immediate political needs?”

Cullen slowly sat back down. He said, “You’ve accused me of manipulating her before and I resent that. I don’t know if it says more about me, since you apparently believe I am incapable of caring for her, or if it says more about you.”

“Okay, I’ll bite,” Varric said. “What does it say about me, exactly?”

“You consider yourself Lavender’s closest friend, yet you cannot fathom why a person like me would care about a person like her,” Cullen said. His tone was uncharacteristically sharp. “Consider the implications.”

“Oh, no,” Varric said. “I don’t think so. Don’t act all high and mighty. If you’re saying you have feelings for her I accept that, but it didn’t start out that way and you know it. She was an indentured refugee apostate with a family to feed. You were the Knight-Captain of the biggest mage prison in the Free Marches--don’t give me that look, you can spin it however you like but that’s exactly what it was. You knew she couldn’t say no to you, and you batted your eyelashes and leveraged it for all it was worth. So don’t--”

Cullen stood, jostling the table. “We’re done,” he said. “You asked a question and I answered it.”

“If you care about her, why haven’t you asked about her? Why haven’t you asked if she’s alright?”

“If she wasn’t you would have put a crossbolt between my eyes,” Cullen said, irritably. “Hawke is a private person, I’m not going to pry into her--”

“No, _you’re_ a private person, and you don’t like asking uncomfortable questions that force you to confront uncomfortable answers.”

“Clearly you have it all figured out,” Cullen said, and he strode out of the tavern.

Varric shook his head and tore off another chunk of bread. He stared at the parchment, willing words that never came. He’d made no progress on it when Flissa came by with another ale.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

They had admittedly made a bit of a scene. Varric was a little surprised Cullen had even been willing to argue, normally when confronted he simply leveled a sour look and left the room. “Yeah,” he said. “We’ve known each other a long time. You know how it is. Things accumulate.”

“How’s your book coming along?” Flissa asked. She was a big fan of his work. He appreciated it, especially now, when inspiration was running low and he was behind deadline.

“Terrible,” he said. “No muse.”

“Are you still working on the ambassador romance? It sounded interesting.”

“Something’s off about it.”

“I’m sure it’s wonderful,” she said.

People who didn’t write never understood these things. He said, “Well, my editor will make the call.” That was the great thing about editors, at least. You could blame them for nearly everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited, now gooder. You welc.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trevelyan is escorted to the Crossroads. In route she learns a terrible fate has befallen the Tranquil and she ponders her role as the Herald and a free mage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter introduces some canon divergence. Blights are triggered, in part, by changes to Veil composition.

No one chose Clementine Trevelyan to be the Inquisition’s figurehead. She had never been chosen for anything except mopping floors. It was thanks to her proclivity for snooping, and her knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, that she now found herself surrounded by Inquisition agents as she clambered down a wet, mossy slope in the Hinterlands, her right hand throbbing with unmeasured magical power.

The Inquisition, to its credit, intended to recruit the best. Seeker Cassandra originally sought out the Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall in earnest and would likely still be looking for them if a hayseed from Ostwick had not been saddled with the anchor and dropped unceremoniously into her lap.

Trevelyan flexed her fingers and a small spark of green raced across the palm of her muddy glove. Her skin tingled briefly. The pain was fleeting, akin to a muscle cramp, but it served as a constant reminder of her own mortality. For years Trevelyan had yearned for even the barest shred of magical talent. Now she wished she’d been given anything else. She was well-studied in the magical arts for a non-practitioner. She knew a great deal of magical theory and from that vantage her newly acquired rift magic was fascinating, but Seeker Cassandra had been right. The anchor, as they called it, was killing her. She would carry this magic until it ate her alive, much as the Breach threatened to devour Thedas. In the meantime, her handlers in the Inquisition were busy carting her all over Southern Thedas to close the rifts that kept opening across the countryside.

The rebellion that had overthrown the Mage Circles promised freedom for all mages, but Trevelyan had found such notions laughable long before the Ostwick Circle fell. Freedom, for mages? The power magic represented was far too great. Freedom was impossible.

As the party descended the hill Trevelyan stayed closest to the dwarven archer, Varric Tethras. The human Seeker, Cassandra Pentaghast, took the lead, while the elvish hedgemage Solas went ahead. They spoke little, for which Trevelyan was grateful, and at the bottom of the hill they were able to resume their trek along the main road through the valley. Remnants of war spread out before them: burned out houses, destroyed wagons, and corpses. They passed the crumpled, bloodied forms of mages, templars, and peasants alike. The rebel mages and red templars, in their zeal to destroy each other, had taken a toll on the countryside.

Trevelyan stopped alongside a cluster of bodies. Two templars were draped over a mage, steam rising from the slits in the templars’ helms. When Cassandra realized her ward was no longer at her heel she quickly turned, as though Trevelyan might take flight again at any moment, but the little mage had resigned herself to her fate. She was past running. She looked up at the Seeker, sniffing, and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "You’re makin’ a big mistake," she said.  
  
"I'll scout ahead," Varric said quietly, shouldering his crossbow as he vanished around the bend.  
  
"The Crossroads aren't much farther, Trevelyan," Cassandra said, wiping her brow. Her every action, even the most mundane, seemed resonant and powerful. Trevelyan yearned to be tall and strong but had known from a tender age she would always be the small, sniveling sort, scrabbling for crumbs under the table and trying to avoid being stepped on. "We should keep moving."  
  
Trevelyan's eyes wandered back to the dead mage's blood-spattered face. "You don't know what it's like," she said.  
  
Cassandra considered. "I don't know what it's like to be a mage, but I can try to understand your perspective."  
  
"I meant being a coward," Trevelyan said, with a note of impatience. "People think it's easy, but it's not. It's hard."  
  
Cassandra rested her hand on her sword pommel. "You are not a coward, Trevelyan," she said, in a measured tone.  
  
Trevelyan snorted inelegantly. Cassandra would not have forgotten the urine-damp of Trevelyan’s robes as she’d hauled the little mage up the mountain like a sack of squalling potatoes. Trevelyan herself had certainly not forgotten the scratch of brambles and the snap of twigs against her face, the stinging cold as she scrabbling over ice-slick stones with bound hands, desperate to escape the Seeker closing in behind her. She had to be dragged kicking and screaming up the mountain before she finally accepted there was no escape. She had been marked, her fate sealed. She would live and die by the anchor. "I took one look at that Breach and hightailed--" She paused, licked her lower lip. When she was nervous her Ostwick came out. Cassandra's brow softened. "I ran away," Trevelyan said.

"You were afraid, and rightly so,” Cassandra said. ”Most mages die when they attempt to close a rift. Fear is not the same as cowardice. You did what needed to be done when the time came."

It was true. Mages usually died when they attempted to close a rift in the Veil. Knowing that, Cassandra Pentaghast forced her to close the rift anyway, expecting her to die in the process. Trevelyan understood the stakes, but that did not lessen her resentment.

  
Trevelyan opened her hand. The mark glowed, pulsing green through the stitches in her muddy glove. "I had no choice. You made me. The Breach… made me. That's no better." The mark flickered and Trevelyan flinched. To finally have power, such incredible power, and for it to be like this--

The Chantry was right. The Maker must really hate her.

"You passed the Harrowing, did you not?" Cassandra asked. “You had no choice, but you fought and you succeeded.”  
  
"That's different. That's more about..." Trevelyan tapped the side of her head. She’d always had a way with spirits in the Fade, even during that first encounter as a lowly apprentice. As she spent more time in the Fade, sleeping and dreaming, she became familiar with spirits and learned from them. Dreamwalking was the only thing she’d ever been good at, and it was no surprise to her the one thing she was actually good at was forbidden and looked down upon. The Chantry said mages were not supposed to wander the Fade. Mages were not supposed to communicate with spirits. And mages certainly weren’t supposed to learn from demons.  
  
"Perhaps this," Cassandra said, tapping her head likewise, "is what is needed at the Crossroads."  
  
Trevelyan closed her hand, unconvinced. "I don't see why I have to go in person. There’s not a rift there."

"Mother Gisele has requested your presence as the Herald. Others will call on you as word spreads," Cassandra said. "I know it seems far now, but you will get used to traveling. You will have to go to dangerous places to close the rifts, but we will do the fighting. We will protect you, Trevelyan, I promise you that." When Trevelyan did not move, Cassandra added, almost harshly, "You must go to the Crossroads, Trevelyan. There is no other way."  
  
Trevelyan shook her head and wiped her nose with the back of her hand again. Cassandra was right. She had no choice. At least Seeker Cassandra and Sister Leliana were willing to pretend she was an equal partner in all this. In the Circle pretending had many uses, not the least of which was preserving one’s dignity. It was far better to pretend she was seizing what was given rather than be dragged along as the Inquisition’s puppet. "Fine," she said. She hitched her belt, gave the corpses a final glance, and resumed the march down the road.

Varric was leaning against a tree at the base of the hill. He straightened on their approach. “Looks like we missed the brunt of the fighting,” he said. “They all killed each other already.”

Cassandra shook her head. “Such a waste,” she said.

Trevelyan much preferred the rebel mages and red templars be dead, the more dead the better, but she kept that to herself.

“Hey, Chuckles,” Varric said. “Where have you been?”

Solas emerged from one of the burned-out houses, his expression characteristically neutral. “Venatori are working in the area,” he said.

“Tevinter magisters, lovely,” Varric said. “As if red templars and rebel mages weren’t enough.”

“Show us what you found,” Cassandra said.

Solas led them to a clearing on the hillside with a what appeared to be a small statue, but as they neared Trevelyan realized it was a skull mounted on a pedestal.

“I’ve seen a few things,” Varric said, “but that’s… really messed up. What is it?”

“An occularum,” Solas said. “They are used to locate artifacts that are only visible when reality is reinforced. That is, when the Veil is disrupted. The Venatori are taking advantage of the Breach to scour and loot the area.”

Trevelyan edged closer in spite of herself. She’d never heard of such a thing, but reading materials in the Ostwick Circle library were Chantry-approved and little was available on forbidden magic. She only ever learned about the good stuff in the Fade, and nobody ever said anything about enchanted skulls. The wood pedestal was intricately carved and branded with a lyrium-infused rune. The craftsmanship was incredible, it was almost as good as something Matthais would make. Trevelyan inched closer still, curious, until she made out the faint outline of the Chantry sunburst on the skull’s forehead.

Trevelyan took three quick steps back, her hand going automatically to her mouth. She took a gulping breath.

Varric and Cassandra both started and Cassandra reached for her sword.

“Occulara are created from the skulls of the tranquil,” Solas said quietly. “The tranquil is forcibly possessed and killed while the demon is inside them.”

Trevelyan paled. Many tranquil chose the Rite of Tranquility precisely because they feared demonic possession. The fact that they had been forced to undergo the very thing they feared, the thing that terrified them so much they were willing to completely sever their connection to the Fade and remove their capacity for emotion…

Cassandra’s hand dropped from her sword. “I wondered what happened to the tranquil after the Circles fell,” she said. “So many were unaccounted for. But I did not look for them. Someone should have.” She shook her head. “I should have.”

The Chantry, which claimed to protect and safeguard tranquil, had not cared what happened to them once the Circles fell. Lacking magic, they were not the precious commodity the healers, battlemages, and enchanters had become. Tranquil were invaluable inside the Circles as a labor source resistance to lyrium, which gave them the ability to enchant, but outside the Circles they were largely considered expendable. Outsiders found them unsettling and strange and considered them unwelcome competition for non-magical jobs. Nobody wanted the tranquil. Even people like Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast had more important things to do than find out where they were, what happened to them.

Trevelyan remembered begging Matthais to take her with him when Ostwick fell. “Lady Trevelyan,” he’d said, in melodic monotone. “You must go with the other mages. You will be safest with them.”

“Take me with you!” she cried, clinging to him. “Don’t leave me!”

“Be brave, Lady Trevelyan,” he’d said, gently unprying her fingers. “Be brave, for all of us.” Behind him, the tranquil--her dear friends--all smiled as one, encouraging her to be the brave mage circumstance demanded. That had been many miles away, across the Waking Sea, and yet--

Had this gleaming skull once belonged to a friend? There was no way to know, but she herself had crossed the sea to attend the conclave and her friends might have crossed as well. It did not matter, in the end, if this occularum was Matthais or a stranger. It made no difference at all.

Trevelyan drew in a quick, angry breath. She was too mad to talk. She spit.

Cassandra looked slightly taken aback, but Varric said, “Yeah, me too. What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m gonna find who done this,” Trevelyan said, all pretenses of a noble accent vanished. “And I’m gonna make them pay.”

“I agree. We must find them,” Cassandra said. She was studying the skull, her expression hard. “This cannot continue.”

“Venatori have likely infiltrated the rebel mages that have taken sanctuary in Redcliffe,” Solas said. “If we make inquiries there we may learn more.”

They resumed the road south, Cassandra once again taking the lead while Varric brought up the rear. Trevelyan stayed close to Solas. When she caught him looking at her she scowled. “You were only tryin’ to get me riled up,” she whispered under her breath.

“Is it working?” he asked.

Trevelyan huffed.

“Anger can be an excellent motivator,” Solas said. “This is only one of many atrocities committed here. Humans, elves, dwarves… they’ve all done unspeakable things to each other, to innocents. But of course you know this, probably better than most.” Solas paused to slide over a large tree trunk that was perpendicular across the road. Several dead templars were underneath it and scattered nearby. Probably the tree had been uprooted and thrown by a force mage who was also lying dead somewhere. Solas did not offer assistance and Trevelyan did not ask; she awkwardly clambered over the large trunk. “I find it interesting Circle Mages are considered sheltered,” he said. “Sheltered from what, I wonder?”

“Decent food, mostly,” Trevelyan muttered.

Solas did not, to her knowledge, laugh--hence the ironic nickname Chuckles--but the corner of his mouth curved upward. “The Circle System was intended to protect mages from the outside world, but what about the world within the Circle? In a prison, who defends the defenseless? What alliances must less-powerful mages form to survive?”

At a young age Trevelyan had learned to distrust those in control. She told the Inquisition as little about her background as possible. They knew she was a Circle Mage, and a coward obviously, and that she came from a minor noble family in Ostwick. She hadn’t told them anything about her life in the Circle. She hadn’t told them she had no magic to speak of, or that the tranquil in the tower were her only friends, or that she herself had once been offered the Rite of Tranquility--an offer the Knight-Commander evidently considered sympathetic and gracious. Nevertheless, Solas knew the occularum would give her a firm push in the direction he wanted her to go. “How did you know?” she asked, unable to help herself.

“A Circle Mage’s training is often lacking but your knowledge of magical theory is astonishingly thorough. How is it, then, that you found it so difficult to control the anchor? It was as though you’d never cast a spell before.” Solas shrugged, dipping his shoulder. “Birds of a feather,” he said.

Trevelyan eyeballed him for a full minute before she said, “I reckon there ain’t no point tryin’ to hide things from you.”

He did not even bat a lash when she dropped her noble accent in full. “I think not,” he said.

Trevelyan chewed her lower lip, lost in thought. The remainder of their hike was uneventful. Her feet were beyond aching when they reached the Crossroads, and she recalled Commander Cullen’s request that they attempt to secure mounts in the Hinterlands. It now seemed like a much more interesting idea. She wondered if Commander Cullen would teach her how to ride, and was considering the proximity such training might require when they passed through the gates.

The camp at the Crossroads was bustling and orderly, a far cry from the scatter and war in the Hinterlands. The Inquisition had sent meager troops to assist in an attempt to secure a presence in the region but other volunteers were here as well. Trevelyan gazed across the field and met the eyes of a tall templar with black warpaint smeared across her breastplate to cover the Sword of Mercy. The templar had a gash across her cheek. She inclined her head.

She was a defector. Not a rogue templar, but a deserter all the same. Seeing a templar who had willfully divested herself of the Order stirred conflicting feelings in Trevelyan. She quickly looked away. Deeper in the camp, amid the large tents that bustled with clergy, a human woman was overseeing the site.

Trevelyan had never seen Mother Gisele before but she knew her by reputation. Gisele caused quite a stir in Orlais when, during a famine, she ordered Chantry food stores be taken to the alienage and poorer sections of town first. It was not so surprising to see that same practicality employed here among the survivors. The refugees who had fled to the Crossroads were being attended by order of need rather than status.

Mother Gisele saw them approach. Seeker Pentaghast’s black and white stylized armor drew the eye naturally, as did her stature and determination, but Gisele’s eyes moved past her and settled on the littlest among them. Trevelyan had a brief and uncharacteristic moment of self-consciousness and made a half-hearted attempt to smooth her rumpled, fraying robes.

“You are the Herald,” Gisele said, the words softened by an Orlesian accent. “I am Mother Gisele. Thank you for coming.” Trevelyan inclined her head. “You have only just arrived, but may we speak?”

Trevelyan glanced at Cassandra, almost furtively, and the Seeker said, “Please, take your time. I must consult with the officers here.”

Trevelyan plopped down, eager to rest her weary feet.

“You are with the Inquisition,” Gisele said after the others departed, leaving them alone in the tent. “With” was a charitable way to put it, but something in Gisele’s manner suggested she understood Trevelyan was as much a prisoner as a volunteer. “I prayed for your safe arrival. Is it true? Do you have the power to close the tears in the Veil?”

“Yes,” Trevelyan said. So far, anyway. She’d found practical application far more difficult than her understanding of magical theory would have led her to believe. She might have magic now, but it still did not come naturally to her, nor was it easy. Closing a rift was agony, the sensation akin to having one’s guts violently twisted and drawn out.

“Do you intend to close the wound in the sky?” Gisele asked.

An interesting question. Everyone else simply assumed Trevelyan would do it because, well--why wouldn’t she? Wasn’t that what mages were supposed to do? Sacrifice their bodies and talents for everyone else? That was what the Chantry taught, after all. Trevelyan had closed the large rift without dying, and two smaller ones on the road, but who was to say the next rift wouldn’t kill her, just as rifts killed other mages who attempted to repair the Veil? Her survival might well be temporary.

“I hope to,” Trevelyan said.

“We will help you, if we can,” Gisele said. “We have secured a supply line from Redcliffe, and with your help we can ensure a route to Haven.”

Trevelyan paused, worrying her lower lip.

“Yes, Herald?” Gisele asked.

“That ain’t--” Trevelyan shook her head. She was tired, it was only natural she’d slip up. “Surely that isn’t why you asked me to come here, to discuss supply routes.”

“They call you the Herald of Andraste,” Gisele said. “They say no person, no mage, could wield the power you possess unless it was divinely granted. Do you think that’s true?”

There was something in Gisele’s quiet manner, her wise eyes, that made Trevelyan want to unburden herself. She wanted to say no, it was an accident, it was all a big mistake. But life in the Circle had taught her that when one obtained even the tiniest sliver of an upper hand one must do everything possible to preserve it. Whatever she’d heard of Mother Gisele, she was still a high-ranking member of the Chantry. Trevelyan knew what templars and the clergy expected mages to say.

“I wish to serve the Maker,” Trevelyan said. “It cannot be a coincidence I was granted this gift when the Veil was torn. My purpose is clear.”

“Ah,” Gisele said. “I am glad you consider it a gift. It seems like a frightening one. I must wonder, such power… one hopes it will enable you to repair the damage done, but how can one know?”

“The Veil should not be altered lightly,” Trevelyan agreed. “Tearing it, and repairing it, may have terrible consequences. Disruptions in the Veil could trigger a Blight, if the popular theories are correct. But repairing it, however disruptive that may be in the short term, is safer than allowing it to remain open.”

Gisele folded her hands in her lap. “You are a scholar,” she said.

“I studied magical theory in the Circle,” Trevelyan said. “The Inquisition has recruited many learned mages. We have pooled our knowledge and are considering all the options.”

“I admit, when I first learned the Herald had joined the Inquisition I was uncertain what that might mean. Now that the Circles have fallen and the Templar Order is scattered, the Chantry’s resources are stretched thin. I pray the Inquisition will protect the people where we cannot.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Trevelyan said. “But protecting the people is not the Inquisition’s primary responsibility. Our foundational task is closing the Breach.”

Gisele smiled. Trevelyan hadn’t been expecting that. Perhaps it showed on her face. Gisele said, “As I understand it, the Inquisition was originally refounded to find a peaceful resolution to the mage-templar war. The Breach has changed all of our priorities, but surely the Inquisition can consider both the Veil and the people in equal measure.”

Gisele took, “peaceful resolution to the mage-templar war” to mean, “saving people.” But Trevelyan understood the dangers of magic better than most, and she knew that bringing an end to the war was more about regulating magic and preserving the Veil than it was about saving the commoners caught in the crossfire, or even the mages and templars themselves.

The destruction of the Circles forced tens of thousands of mages into the general population and the fractured Templar Order had no way of imposing restrictions on magic usage. Wider-spread use of magic would escalate the thinning of the Veil, making it more prone to tears. One way or another, magic had to be regulated again--either by a system of regulatory laws that could be reasonably enforced or by the reduction of the mage population. Trevelyan suspected the latter would be easier to implement and far more likely. The templars had long known it was easier to kill a mage, or render them Tranquil, than force compliance. It was one thing to coerce mages trapped in Circles to submit to the Chantry’s will, but it was quite another to convince free mages to obey and serve.

“I believe we can coexist,” Gisele said, seeming to read her thoughts, but Trevelyan could not imagine a world where magic was not a lucrative, highly exploitable environmental hazard. It seemed to her magic by its very nature made peaceful coexistence impossible.

Nevertheless, at times like these Trevelyan found it prudent to produce the correct answer. “The Maker will guide us,” she said.

“With wisdom and empathy, we may guide ourselves and in turn others,” Gisele replied.

Trevelyan wanted to say she wasn’t a leader. She wasn’t chosen, she wasn’t anything but an accident. But staring up into those compassionate, knowing eyes, something stirred within her: a desire to try. One used the tools at hand, and the authority and influence granted her by the name Herald were powerful tools indeed. Could she truly make some mark on this world?

“I believe in the Inquisition’s ability to reduce suffering,” Gisele continued. “If the Inquisition aids the people, the people will be inspired by you and they will listen to your message.”

It seemed to Trevelyan dealing with the Veil’s instability was much more pressing than handing out blankets to refugees, but she nodded. She had much to think about, and if agreeing allowed her to sit a bit longer she would gladly do so. They lapsed into companionable silence. Trevelyan stretched her legs, resting her aching heels, and allowed her considerable imagination to ruminate over many things: horses and Marie du Lac Erre's Sweet Ruin and Commander Cullen and her demon, anything but her looming destiny and the Breach that loomed along with it.


	3. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke joins the Inquisition. Full rewrite, much add.

The Champion decided the fastest way to reach the Inquisition’s camp was to surrender. The bandits she’d been traveling with were growing troublesome and refused to travel farther west so she abandoned them in the middle of the night, hiking three miles to the Inquisition camp to warn them of the impending ambush and gain their favor.

The Captain was not impressed. “What use does the Inquisition have for a filthy bandit?” she asked. Two archers had their arrows pointed at Hawke’s throat.

“Perhaps a filthy bandit who sparkles would garner your interest,” she said, holding out a palm. The flame that manifested there was small but solid. In a way, the flame was just another lie. Lavender Hawke could draw enough energy from the Fade to burn down the entire camp if she had cause, but she had long ago learned discretion.

“Why do you want to join?” the Captain asked. “What do you expect is in it for you, mage?”

“I can’t bloody well play cards by myself,” she replied.

The first day they treated her like a prisoner but soon she marched among them; such was the effect she had on people. The soldiers had carved their city banners into their leathers and bucklers. Lydes, Amaranthine, Jader, Redcliffe, Verchielf--Orlesians and Fereldans alike. The Champion could not remember the banner for Lothering, or if it even had one, and she scratched the heraldry of the City of Chains with the edge of her dagger. None recognized Kirkwall by sight by the name stirred a few sympathetic head shakes.

“I heard the weather’s nice up there,” the Lydian said, trying to be kind.

Hawke’s only response was an enigmatic jester’s smile.

Their march through the marshes was bleak. The rains in Crestwood were unrelenting and a cold front added insult to injury. When she wasn’t marching Hawke spent much of her time stoking magical fires resistant to the damp weather and building shelters.

The scouts watched, slightly agape, as she pulled Force energy taut with a metaphysical snap of her wrist, drawing up scavenged wood into tight, strong rows and sinking the stakes neatly into the heavy clay soil.

“Maker’s arse, why didn’t you tell us you could do that from the start?” one asked, for a mage with her command of Force magic could prepare a campsite ten times as faster than soldiers driving stakes with hammers. The answer should have been obvious. An apostate would never display such power until she was sure those she traveled with could be trusted. But the Champion, who had long grown tired of explaining the minutiae of her world to outsiders, merely shrugged and said, “So are you going to let me play cards now or what?”

The card games were good for the spirit, cleansing for the soul, and divested her of what meager possessions she still had. Most importantly, she gained a friend: a scout from Denerim who looked uncannily like her sister. They whiled away the nights telling each other extravagant lies about past lives. Hawke claimed to have been, in no particular order, an explorer, an entrepreneur, a revolutionary, a princess, and a viscount. The scout found the last the most amusing of all.

They shared a tent, sleeping back-to-back in the mud. Their slumber was platonic and uneventful until one early morning the scount’s fingers tentatively trailed over Hawke’s hip. Hawke stirred, blinking awake.

“Sorry to wake you,” the scout whispered, close to her ear. “I just thought… maybe you’d want to mess around? For fun?”

“You should know, you look just like my sister,” Hawke said, in a low voice.

“Maker’s balls,” the scout said. “Might as well douse me in cold water. So much for that.”

“No, you don’t understand. You look like my sister and I’ve been so homesick. It will be just like old times in the barn. I’ll call you ‘Sister dearest,’ and if you could--”

The scout covered her face with her hand. “Maker, what is wrong with you?” she whispered.

“That scout from Jader looks like my brother,” Hawke continued. “We’ll bring him in next--”

The scout nearly choked. She clamped a hand over Hawke’s mouth. “Shh, shut up! You’re so dirty!”

“Oh, sister dearest,” was Hawke’s muffled reply.

The scout buried her face in her arm to suppress her giggles, and Hawke waited contentedly until she composed herself. Finally, the scout said, “If you don’t want to do anything just say so.”

“I didn’t want you to get angry at me,” Hawke said. “You can’t get angry if you’re laughing, now can you?”

The scout propped up on an elbow. “Is it true?” she asked.

“What, that I slept with my sister? Well, it depends on your definition--”

“Maker, do you ever stop?” The scout buried her face in her arm again. “No more jokes, please.”

“You asked very nicely so I’ll consider it,” Hawke said.

The scout flopped down beside her so they were both staring up at the roof of the tent. “Do you really have siblings? You never mentioned them in your stories.”

“Yes,” Hawke said. “My sister married a handsome, pious prince with manicured hands and an excellent singing voice. I cannot disclose the particulars. Politics. You understand.”

The scout smiled. “Of course,” she said.

“My brother became a freedom fighter and leader of men, looked up to and respected by many. He is currently sowing chaos in the red templar ranks and liberating those oppressed. Saying anything more could endanger him, so again, the particulars…”

The scout’s smile remained. “Do you miss them?” she asked, perhaps detecting some subtle undercurrent in the Champion’s tone.

A simple question, deserving an honest answer, so for the first time in weeks Hawke uttered a whole truth.

“More than anything,” she said.

Alas, this friendship would not last. The Champion was familiar with tragedy and never shied away from such things, so when the scout suffered a nasty greenstick fracture that became infected Hawke remained by her side until the end. She was not a nurturer, and had no talent for magic that would ease the pain, but she diligently chewed bitter elfroot for poultices as she walked by her friend’s litter, using a light touch of Force magic to keep the injured scout steady as they moved over rough terrain. Within days the scout began moaning quietly in her sleep, unveiling a jumble of memories of the Blight, Denerim’s streets, and the King’s army. They’d had far more in common than Hawke had ever realized, but the Champion would have had to risk telling the truth to know it. Such is the lot of those who never stop running, never stop lying, and never stop being afraid.

Two nights later the scout died. The squadron stopped long enough to build a pyre and Hawke supplied grease and ignition so it would burn quick and bright. Hawke hadn’t attended a proper funeral since her mother’s. She attempted to recite the Chant with them but could not remember all the words. She moved her lips silently as the scout burned.

The next day the squadron took an old pilgrimage road into the Frostbacks. It was cold and Hawke’s worn leathers, while adequate in the swamps, were not fit for snowy climes. The Lieutenant lent her an Inquisition cloak. The wool was warm but scratchy.

It was a strenuous hike of the sort that would only ever be weathered by the faithful and Hawke adjusted her expectations accordingly. There would be no ambivalence or passing interest in the Inquisition’s camp. Those assembled would either be true believers or people with something to gain. They would all have purpose.

Hawke had known many true believers in her day, but even her mother would have been skeptical of the Herald of Andraste, a mage rumored to be blessed by Andraste herself. If the rumors were even half-true, and the Inquisition had a mage of extraordinary and rare ability who could close the Breach, the Grey Wardens would eventually come for her. Better Hawke got to her first.

“What can you tell me about the leadership?” Hawke asked, falling into march with Captain Kelding.

“All out of jokes, eh? Has it finally gotten to you, mage?” Kelding asked, nodding up to the green swirling mass in the sky. As they ascended they neared the Breach and its features came into starker relief.

“You said they need mages. A lot of people need mages. I’d like to know what I’m in for.”

“Ah,” Kelding said. “Well, we haven’t many mages but they get a square meal and a tent same as the rest of us. There are a handful of former templars at camp, defectors mostly, the two tend to avoid each other. The Commander was a templar, but he’s left it behind.”

Hawke had heard of this miraculous transformation from Varric. Cullen abandoned Kirkwall and the Order, leaving the City of Chains and his legacy behind. A tiny worm of spite burrowed into her heart, because while he could no more toss aside his shackles than she, at least he could make a pretense of trying.

“Knight-Commander Cullen of the Gallows,” she said, keeping her voice neutral.

“Then you’ve heard of him,” Kelding said. “You mages are a gossipy lot, aren’t you? I’m no expert, but he seems like a decent man. Bit young, but he’s level-headed and takes his job seriously, does things by the book.”

The more things stay the same, Hawke almost said, but that would be far too telling. Instead, she said, “And the Herald?”

“Afraid I don’t know her. Keeps to herself. They say she’s powerful, but--” Kelding caught herself. “Save your breath for the hike, mage. You’ll find out soon enough.”

Soon they marched across the stone bridge to Haven and the Champion laid eyes on the Inquisition for the first time. Ragtag soldiers and mercenaries loitered by tents as a gaggle of scouts tossed bones around a circle in the dirt. More soldiers were in the training fields, practicing drills and stretching. Kelding’s assessment was true: there were only a few templars and they kept to themselves at the far end of the training field. Hawke’s practiced eye spotted at least two healers, but no battlemages.

When Hawke found Varric she was struck by how little he had changed. He still wore a fine silk shirt with an open neck and his heavy gold chain, even though the frosty mountain air did not favor a bared chest. Hawke was exhausted, her feet were sore and her bad arm throbbed, but at the sight of him a lopsided smile cracked her dirty, weathered face.

She called to him and almost wondered if he would recognize her. She was caked in mud and had tracks of sweat down her temples and sedimentary layers of muck under her nails. Her staff had a few new scorch marks and her heavy breast plate was tarnished with remnants of old blood. Of course, she need not worry. As soon as he heard her voice he hurried to her side.

“I surrendered,” she said, when he was within hearing. “I wanted to see what it felt like. Not half as fun as wholesale slaughter. Can’t say I’d recommend it.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked, scanning for eavesdroppers. “I thought you were going to stay with the others.” He looked up at her. “Are you okay?” he asked.

These past few years had been hard on her old friend and Hawke was not eager to add more burdens to his shoulders. She would keep the inexorable creep of the red lyrium to herself and they could discuss the trouble brewing amongst the Grey Wardens another day. “I needed new clothes,” she said, poking a finger through a hole in her torn trousers. “I heard you get a free uniform for joining.”

Varric opened his arms and Hawke dropped to one knee to accept his embrace. He smelled like the familiar, expensive cologne she’d become so well-acquainted with in Kirkwall. She didn’t want to think about what she smelled like after being on the road these long months.

“What about the others? Are they…?”

“Varric,” she said, almost chiding.

“Thank the Maker,” he said, briefly closing his eyes. “They’re all right.”

Hawke laughed. “They’re more annoying than ever. Sister this, sister that, mother loved us best and you let us get carted off by the Wardens for spite, how could a blood mage murder mother on your watch, why did you let Anders blow up Kirkwall, why didn’t you marry that sexy prince haven’t you any sense, why can’t you ever take anything seriously, where’s the dog. The next time an archdemon shows up I expect they’ll just nag it to death.”

“Then why are you here?” he asked.

“The sooner the Breach is closed the better,” she said, in a tone that brooked no further questioning. “Also, I’m hungry. One can only subsist on squirrels and dirt for so long.”

They walked side-by-side up the path, away from the bustle of the squadron reuniting with its fellows. “What are you going to tell the Inquisition?”

“That I’m an emissary of the Wardens sent to help,” she said. “That’s enough for now. I wouldn’t want to distract them too much from this little beauty.” She lifted her face toward the Breach and paused, admiring the clarity provided by Haven’s altitude and crisp air. “Maker, it is something,” she said, with an awe she normally reserved for beautiful young men, handsome older women, and extremely well-made daggers.

“I can still pass the information along, like we planned,” Varric said. “You don’t have to stay here.” He’d been like this ever since she escaped Kirkwall. Overly protective. She still wasn’t used to the change, but she accepted it.

“Is this your way of suggesting I’ve lost my edge and winsome charm?” she asked. “Have some faith in my ability to ingratiate myself to those in authority. Maker knows I’ve done it my whole life.”

Varric need not reply, he was already leading the way up the trampled, snowy path to the largest building in Haven, the Chantry. Their feet crunched in the gravel.

“This place is insultingly rustic,” she said. “I thought you hated the country. And snow. And gravel. And open air. And tents. And Fereldan cooking.”

This, at least, earned her a chuckle. “I’ve called in enough favors to keep myself comfortable,” he said.

They fell into companionable silence until they reached the Chantry. Hawke stopped in front of the massive wooden doors and popped her neck. This Chantry fell somewhere between the humble wood building in Lothering, where she’d spent so many evenings hearing about how her magic was the scourge of mankind, and the towering monolith in Kirkwall that had been second only to the Viscount’s Keep in stature and opulence. Haven had been built around this Chantry, but it exuded Fereldan pragmatism and piety.

Varric looked up at her. “It’s not too late to slip away,” he said. “Even if he saw you, Cullen wouldn’t say anything and we’re the only ones who know what you look like.”

For Hawke there was no such option. She had promised her mother she would protect the little Hawkes and she would fulfill that promise before she died. The thought of slipping away from Cullen Rutherford was a tantalizing one but she would still dream of him, as she dreamed of all the things in her past that had gone wrong. Then there was Varric. She looked down at her old, dear friend, a man she would gladly die for, and tsked. “Slip away and fade into obscurity? That’s no way to tell a story. What would the readers say?”

“They’d say you earned it. They like happy endings.” Varric put a hand on the door, as if this might somehow bar her entry. “I like happy endings,” he said. “I think you should finally get to have one, for once.”

A happy ending, without Varric Tethras? Hawke knew there could be no such thing. “Honestly, Varric. If I stop now, how will I ever become a dragon?”

Varric’s hand dropped. “I can’t even tell if you’re joking about that anymore,” he said, with a sigh of resignation.

Hawke laughed and pushed both doors open. Her laugh echoed into the Chantry, and the Sisters standing near the front turned to look. Hawke winked and clicked her tongue, drawing a blush from one and a look of mild consternation from the other.

“Maybe be a bit more subtle until we actually get you installed here,” Varric muttered under his breath.

Hawke turned to close the doors and, as she looked out across the courtyard, she saw him.

The templar had changed. Gone was the heavy plate and brocade skirts she’d become so accustomed to, replaced subtler leathers and lighter, more pragmatic armor. The chestplate was exposed, and it was conspicuous precisely for what it did not hold. The Sword of Mercy was so intimately intertwined with her memories of him it was almost jarring to see him without it.

Even from this distance she could see the red tunic he’d swathed himself in was gold-embroidered. It was a flourish she never would have expected from Cullen. He looked haggard, older than he should after only three years, but the boyish curls persisted, rebelling against all attempts at a sleeker coiffure. There was little doubt he recognized her. He went still when their eyes met.

I wondered what my hero might do in this moment, knowing their reunion was inevitable. I cannot say I was surprised. Hawke pulled the door shut and the politician’s mask, which had been her refuge during her short reign as Viscount, neatly snapped into place. There was work to be done and any feelings stirred up by Cullen Rutherford’s presence would be dealt with another time. If there was anything Hawke excelled at, it was compartmentalization.

I could recite the details of that fateful day. I could describe how Hawke pledged her service to Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, introducing herself as a diplomatic agent of the Grey Wardens. I could tell you how Trevelyan, hidden in her usual shadows, was immediately wary of this wayward apostate with so many fingers in so many pies. I could describe how the Champion artfully avoided crossing paths with her templar, or tell of the handful of discrete alliances she managed to secure throughout the Inquisition camp before nightfall. But these are not the things you need to know about my hero. The most important details were only revealed in private, at the end of the day when Hawke retired to the cabin assigned to her.

Once the door was shut and she was alone she removed her boots one at a time. She undressed slowly, as one unfamiliar with such domestic notions. She washed away layers of grime and blood, months of nomadic living turning the water in the basin foul, before she finally unwound the bandaging around her torso, setting aside the faded, folded letter she carried faithfully over her breast, and revealed the line of red lyrium crystals. The magical cancer ran down her chest like a mountain range on a map, angry red peaks glimmering where they’d ruptured through the scar tissue left by Knight-Commander Meredith’s blade.

The pain and heat radiating from this wound had worsened in recent weeks. A healer and a doctor had both warned her the red lyrium would eventually spread and several weeks prior it had begun in earnest, as though keeping pace with the red lyrium spreading across Ferelden itself.

On the road she attempted to file some of the points down and it felt as though she were filing her own flesh. The red lyrium was not a foreign growth, it was a transformation of the host body, and there was no going back. Hawke would never regain what was lost. The changes the red lyrium wrought on her body were permanent.

Hawke had always had a somewhat distant relationship with her body, as if it were merely a form she was borrowing for a short while and not truly her own. The mage body was a vessel for magic and that, in her mind, was the thing that gave her true value. Her ability to draw magic from the Beyond and function as an energy source was vastly more important than her appearance. Even so, Hawke had long recognized appearances mattered and she modified her appearance to her advantage.

So in Kirkwall the mage body was adorned with noble finery, and later the armor of the Champion, and finally the formal robes befitting a Viscount. On the road the mage body was protected with lightweight armor and leathers. Now the mage body was bound sternum to waist with clean cotton binding to hide away the red lyrium, her terrible secret. If the Inquisition leadership learned she was infected with red lyrium they would doubt her ability, they might even reject her outright. She needed the Inquisition’s growing influence and resources; she would protect her family if it was the last thing she did.

Having bound away her secrets, Hawke returned the faded letter to its place, tucking it between to lengths of binding over her heart. Cullen’s letter had sustained her in the tunnels beneath the Keep and she’d come to view it as a good luck charm. That was the only explanation she had for why she’d carried it so far and long, why again and again it found its place next to her heart.

Finally, she went to bed, her weight heavy on the thin straw mattress. It was the first time in months Lavender Hawke had been alone and safe at the same time, and she finally allowed herself to rest. Of course, to one accustomed to running there is the matter of inertia. Even when Hawke’s body finally stopped her mind continued running, on and on, as she slipped away into sleep and the Beyond.

I always found it curious the Champion dreamt so often of the past and so rarely of the future, but perhaps it is not so surprising. Past failures papered the inside of her mind, the thick layers hardening over the years, until at times no light could get through at all. At night, when she was most vulnerable, Lavender Hawke would run through all her past choices and failures again and again, her dreams an endless quagmire.

In one dream Hawke runs through tall grass, her siblings at her heel. Carver is furious with her, he will never forgive their desertion. They were the only mages in the King’s army and their desertion has proven all the whispers of their fellow soldiers, that free mages cannot be trusted. Big Hawke has no allegiance to the crown or Ferelden or honor, her one true allegiance is her family, and she and the little Hawkes must carry mother to safety. Behind them the King’s army dies in the field and darkness rages. Hawke often runs through these muddy fields in her dreams, feeling the wind at her back as her brother curses her cowardice. Often they do not reach mother in time and the desertion is for nothing. But of course, in this reality they do reach mother, and they gather her up and away, traveling north to safety as Lothering burns behind them.

In one dream Hawke encounters the darkspawn ogre. In the many other universes parallel to this one the ogre kills the little Hawkes, breaking their necks, snapping their spines, crushing their skulls. Rare is a universe such as this one, in which all the little Hawkes survive. I admit there was a moment of doubt when the big Hawke pushed a little Hawke aside, taking her place in the ogre’s grasp. But you understand, a hero cannot die so soon--that’s no way to tell a story. And so I intervened. An arm was broken instead of a neck, and this universe’s trajectory shifted, created a new path.

In one dream Hawke is on the boat, surrounded by rats and the rocking slop of lukewarm seawater, the ever-present smell of vomit and death. This dream mirrors reflects reality perfectly, without embellishment. Eight refugees are infected with the Blight, and due to rats and the passengers’ proximity, it is decided they must be put down mid-voyage. Hawke kills three of them and helps wrap the bodies and roll them overboard into the sea. Mother, father, brother, sister, sister, sister, grandmother, uncle. The blood of the young children stains her hands for long, taut days, and she hears her siblings weeping in the hold, sees them clinging to each other for comfort, and pretends she has not, all while mother finds it impossible to meet her eyes. Even in dreams, at least the little Hawkes always have each other.

In one dream Hawke makes a bargain to secure her family and Aveline Vallen safe passage into the City of Chains. The bargain presses her into forms of servitude I will not divulge here. If Hawke’s waking secrets are safe with Varric Tethras her darkest and most private hours are even safer with me.

In one dream she is surrounded by Lowtown squalor, by cutthroats in the street, death and more death…

Ah, but this parade of nightmares is an old, familiar dance, and Lavender will soldier through it as she always has. My hero will wake in the early morning drenched in sweat and propel herself into the new day. Sleep deeply, Lavender Elthina Hawke. Run, fight, fly, At dawn, your next fight awaits.


	4. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Commander Cullen's battle with lyrium withdrawal is further complicated by a reunion with Lavender Hawke at the war table.

From the moment Commander Cullen woke he could hear lyrium’s song. The withdrawal symptoms always began as a low throb at the base of his skull, spreading upward as the sun rolled across the sky to crest at his temples before settling between his eyes. On the better days the pain was manageable, sometimes even momentarily forgotten. On the bad days nausea forced him to retreat to dark, quiet places to guard his strength.

Today was a bad day and he sought refuge in the meeting room at the back of the Chantry. He stared down at the map until his vision blurred, forcing him to turn away. He mopped his forehead, wiping away the sweat that routinely beaded along his brow.

According to conventional wisdom, templars could not stop taking lyrium. To be a templar was to forever wear lyriums chains. Cullen had known quitting would not be easy, but at times like these he began to wonder if he was truly capable of doing this. He could not possibly be the first templar to make the attempt, but he’d found no record of any templar successfully sustaining, only story after story of former templars scrabbling in the streets for dust, desperate for any substance that would provide relief, however dangerous and unrefined.

In his more difficult moments he found himself wishing for a superior officer, someone above him who could provide direction and focus. But as soon as the thought occurred to him he caught some flicker of Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard just outside his field of vision and he rejected the thought in disgust. This was exactly the sort of thinking that had led to so much misery in Kirkwall. He’d been trained to obey and follow, but he was committed to putting those days behind him. He would be his own man, a better man, and he would be the leader he himself had so desperately needed in the direst moments. If being his own man meant spending days holed-up in the dark war room, watery-eyed and sweating as he felt sorry for himself, so be it. It was not a dignified existence but he’d gone without lyrium for a time, when he was prisoner in Kinloch Hold, and he knew what the symptoms would be like. Back then his struggle to survive had dominated his thoughts. Now his only distractions were his ever-increasing duties as the Commander of a small but steadily growing army tasked with saving all of Thedas from a magical threat they did not even understand.

Cullen mopped his forehead again and resumed his study of the map, frowning at what it told him as well as what it did not. The map informed him of the current troop movements in the Hinterlands. White flags marked the locations of Sister Leliana’s agents in Redcliffe, Jader, and Crestwood. Red flags marked known red templar strongholds. The map even offered a detailed view of Haven and the supply caravans in route. What the map did not tell him was the whereabouts of the person who had dominated his thoughts since her arrival: Lavender Hawke.

In Kirkwall he’d kept a similar map of the city. It was actually Knight-Commander Meredith’s map, but as Meredith withdrew from the public and deferred more of her duties to him he found himself increasingly responsible for its maintenance. On that map he’d tracked Hawke’s known whereabouts with a tiny purple flag. In those early years the purple flag marked where he might go to strong-arm magical aid. Later, it became a marker of friendship. And in the end… Cullen remembered the day he removed the flag from the Keep and placed it in his desk drawer. It had become too painful to look at and no longer served any practical purpose. He no longer knew Hawke’s whereabouts. All he knew was that she was still alive, somewhere.

In retrospect, Cullen was not sure why he’d carried the small hope she’d one day write him, explain what had happened or at least let him know she was alive and well. But that was the sum of their relationship, wasn’t it? Cullen was always waiting for Hawke to write and she never did.

Cullen poked through the small box of unused flags, pricking his thumb through his glove in the process. He flinched and continued his search, finding a red flag and firmly placing it on the map of Haven at the approximate location of Varric’s tent.

When he let go he saw he’d gotten a drop of blood on it. The blood spread out along the edge of the red parchment, darkening it to a shade of deep purple.

The withdrawal migraines had increased his sensitivity to sound. The familiar creak of the heavy Chantry doors, followed by the confident stride of boots on stone, was loud in his ears. He could not possibly know who those footsteps belonged to, but as the throbbing in his head intensified he somehow knew.

“Maker, not now,” he muttered, as the door to the war room groaned open, but the Maker was not on his side these days.

Hawke allowed the door to clank shut behind her and the noise set his teeth on edge. After three years and so many miles, Lavender Elthina Hawke stood before him. He’d prepared for this moment, of course. He could not count the number of times he’d rehearsed what he’d say in front of the mirror while shaving or cycled through conversations as he lie sleepless in bed. Nevertheless, the moment he laid eyes on her he lost his grip on all of it. He had the keen sense of being completely unarmed, of standing defenseless before a dragon and having no idea if it would ignore him or strike.

Hawke was older and had grown more gaunt, a slight hollow to her cheeks; life on the road could be difficult for mages, as they had nutritional needs not easily met in the wilds. Her demeanor was harder, it seemed, and she had new scars of her own. Yet in many ways she had not changed. The line of her neck; the curve of her bicep; the intelligent, glacial eyes--all the same, and all as distracting as he remembered.

Cullen returned to his reports, as if they would save him. “Hawke,” he said, shortly.

“Commander,” she said, walking around the table. She rested her hip against the edge, crossing her arms. She’d often leaned against his desk in the Gallows in just this way. Back then she’d projected confidence and a sense of ease but now, even without looking at her, he could see the anger rising off her like heat.

He felt compelled to fill the uncomfortable silence that was creeping into the room. “Is there something I can do for you?” he asked, trying his damnedest not to look at her, knowing he would surely crumble if he did. The migraine was unrelenting, throwing him off balance, and Hawke knew his vulnerabilities better than anyone. Better to keep his distance and maintain a semblance of defense.

“Is there something you want to say to me?” she asked.

Cullen massaged the bridge of his nose, hoping to stymie at least one of the sources of his misery. He hated it when she did this. He hated being danced around. He flipped a sheet of parchment, the curtness of the motion betraying how tense he was, and said, “Why don’t you tell me what you want to hear and save me the bother of guessing?”

She clucked her tongue, unperturbed. “Oh, that’s right. They say a templar’s mind is the first thing to go. Let me refresh your memory. I was Viscount of Kirkwall.”

“Yes, you were Viscount. I put you there. What of it?”

“Your templars tried to assassinate me.”

He had always wondered if she blamed him personally for the coup. It seemed he had his answer. He said, “They weren’t my templars. They were red templars, traitors to the Order.” They didn’t deserve to be called templars. They barely deserved to be called people. They were animals, as far as he was concerned. “They were dealt with.”

Hawke laughed, and it was such a derisive, sharp sound his gut twisted. “Oh, I see. You handled it. I can put it behind me now.”

“No,” he said. “I didn’t mean--No, of course not.”

“Who was I kidding?” she asked. “I’m sure you barely noticed I was gone.”

That could not be further from the truth. He would never forget staring down at the blood spatter in the Viscount’s chambers, finding the dog in the tunnels, seeing that terrible scrap of nightgown twisted cruelly in the dirt, and feeling every part of him twist inside-out as he assumed the worst. It was unnerving how quickly he snapped back to that time, that horrible, wretched time, when he believed Lavender Hawke was dead. It was the first time in many years the substance of his nightmares had changed.

The reminiscence was enough to bring a lump to his throat, and he steeled his emotions. Hawke wasn’t dead. Maker be praised, she was here, however difficult it was to see her let alone speak with her, and when he woke up tomorrow she would still be here, and she was whole and alive, and with that thought he allowed irritation to fall over him like a protective blanket, insulating him from the glut of emotions. He slapped the parchment on the table and faced her fully. “Enough. If you want to say something, say it.”

“You’re actually going to make me ask.” She smiled then, and there was something ugly and dangerous in it. She’d never turned that smile on him before but he was well aware of this side of her. The last time he’d seen it, at the Hanged Man, he watched her take a man apart, flaying him alive bit by bit with her barbed tongue. “I know you’re accustomed to mages begging but honestly Commander--”

“They went against my orders,” he said, his voice rising. “They were traitors and they were court-marshaled. What would you have me say? What more could I have possibly done?”

She shook her head, that horrible, mirthless smile still on her lips. “I can’t believe I actually thought you were capable of friendship.”

“Friendship?” he asked, incredulously. After what they’d shared--that was what she thought? They’d been friends? “You--” But no. This was how Hawke tore down her opponent’s defenses: slowly, one precisely-thrown barb at a time. He would not play her game. He steadied himself as best he could, trying to ignore the relentless drumbeats of withdrawal, and said, “I won’t argue with you.”

Of course, she had another dagger. Hawke always carried two. “They warned me,” she said. “Once a templar, always a templar. You can change the armor, but you can’t change the bigot wearing it. Did you ever even care about Kirkwall?”

He had heard this sentiment dozens of times, both in passing and directly, but never from anyone who mattered to him. Never from her. In the end, Hawke had been right about so many things. And as lyrium’s song wound itself around him, inaudible taunts from the Fade hovering just below his perception, his will began to falter. Was she right this time, too? Was he incapable of changing?

He was sweating again. He fumbled for his handkerchief and said, “Y-you’re wrong.” Who was he trying to convince? Himself?

Hawke went still. “Maker’s balls, Cullen,” she said. “You stopped taking it.”

He clumsily mopped his brow. “That’s none of your concern,” he said. Maker, why was it so hard to think right now, at a time he desperately needed his wits? His thoughts were swimming, his cognition trapped in murky water.

“Have you lost your mind?” she asked. “You’re their Commander. They depend on you. How could you take a risk like this, when the Inquisition is still so vulnerable?”

She was actually angry about him quitting lyrium. What did she care about the Inquisition? What did any of it matter to her? “Don’t you understand?” he asked. “I have to be rid of it, rid of everything from that life.”

“So you’re just going to purge yourself of Kirkwall, pretend it never happened?”

His mind was reeling and he put a hand on the table to steady himself, but he didn’t back down. He couldn’t purge Kirkwall. He couldn’t forget his mistakes or the Gallows, he didn’t deserve to forget. If he kept taking lyrium, eventually that would happen. He would forget all of it, everything. He couldn’t risk that. The lyrium wouldn’t just take his dignity and his awareness, his respect, it would also take his memories of Hawke. He would not allow it. He could not allow it. He would do whatever it took to be his own man, to keep those precious good memories, even if it put him in an early grave.

She was staring at him, but the politician’s mask firmly in place. He must have uttered some of his thoughts aloud, or perhaps he was truly that transparent to her. He had an overwhelming urge to cry. Mere moments in her presence and he was reduced to a pathetic mess. Only she could disarm him so easily and utterly.

The door creaked behind her.

The thought of being caught in a vulnerable position had always stirred strong emotion in him. Usually it was a heady mixture of panic and exhilaration, but this time it was all panic. He hadn’t felt like this since that time the Quartermaster caught he and his fellow recruits sneaking a taste from the lyrium supply, or perhaps the time he was discretely playing chess with Solona and noticed the Knight-Lieutenant watching him from across the library. He’d worked hard to hide the withdrawal symptoms from Trevelyan and the other advisors. His job as the Commander of the Inquisition’s armed forced was all he had now, and if any of them saw him like this, a husk of a person, weak and reeling--

But he need not be afraid. Hawke was there. She did what she’d always done, from that very first meeting on a scraggly hillside outside Kirkwall. She turned to the door in a smooth, silent movement, blocking the line of sight and shielding him from view. It gave him the few seconds he needed to compose himself and regroup. With his relief came a brief reprieve from pain; the headache withdrew as she moved to the door to intercept the new arrival.

“Your worship,” Hawke said, conversationally.

Those few moments safe at her back were all he needed. Cullen mopped his forehead, collected his wits, and said, “Herald.” The title came out steady and clear, thank the Maker. He would never mistake Hawke’s protection for a truce, her body language told him otherwise, but he felt stronger than he had all morning.

“Champion,” Trevelyan said. “Commander.” She circled the table, but where Hawke’s walk had been confident, as though she’d always belonged, Trevelyan instinctively kept close to the walls as though she might disappear into the stonework at a moment’s notice. Normally her sharp gray eyes were singularly focused on Cullen, for better or worse, but today she was intent on the newcomer. “I understand you are joining us as an emissary of the Wardens,” she said. “Are you a Warden yourself?”

“It was a hard pass on the blood-drinking, I’m afraid,” Hawke said.

“Then I must confess I am not sure why Cassandra asked you here,” Trevelyan said. “I should think a formally-trained Circle mage could provide sufficient insight on magic.”

Cullen had seen mages size each other up in the Circle, where privileges and positions of importance were limited and every scrap of leverage was jealously guarded. Hawke, having never been a Circle mage, often tromped over the delicate lines that allowed such partnerships to be productive and functional.

“I would like to hear Serah Hawke’s perspective,” he said. Trevelyan was taking them both in now, sizing up the situation. He had come to appreciate the mind behind those wide-set eyes was razor-sharp, whatever her eccentricities and rustic tendencies suggested. “We have worked together in the past,” he added, wiping his brow once again. Perhaps Trevelyan would read something into worked and past and grant him some peace. Her unwanted sexual interest had begun to chafe.

“You’re friends?” Trevelyan asked.

Hawke threw her arm around him, and it took all his willpower not to cringe away. “Steadfast, your Worship,” she said. “As Viscount I could not have asked for a more predictable ally.” She would have never touched him so casually if she were not furious with him.

Fortuitously, the other advisors arrived in that moment and she released him. It took some effort not to sigh with relief. He was beginning to wonder if they could reasonably work together, but she crossed the room, moving to lean against he far side of the table, and he felt his concentration return. Of course, seeing Hawke after all this time was understandably throwing him off balance. He would acclimate, he always did.

Lady Montilyet was greeting Hawke as Viscount, her tone professional and friendly. Cassandra addressed her as Champion. Sister Leliana merely inclined her head and said, softly, “Lady Amell.” It was a tribute to the many titles Hawke had earned over her career.

“I understand you bring word from the Grey Wardens,” Cassandra said, without preamble. “They seem to have vanished.”

“Most of the Wardens have convened in the Deep Roads,” Hawke said. She seemed to be choosing her words carefully. “They face the threat of a schism and cannot adjourn until they reach an accord. They are concerned about the Breach, and have sent me to assist the Inquisition however I can. The Wardens understand closing the Breach is paramount.”

“If they truly care about closing the Breach they should offer formal support now, to bolster our influence,” Cullen said. “Their internal disagreements can surely wait.”

Hawke did not look at him, but at Trevelyan. “A lot is riding on whether the Herald can close the Breach. Can you offer assurances?”

This was a subject the advisors had tiptoed around up to this point, even in private meetings in which Trevelyan was not present. Trevelyan’s rift magic was not well understood by anyone, let alone the mage wielding it. Lady Vivienne and Solas were not certain what the physical toll of closing the Breach would cost, but both agreed if Trevelyan attempted to close the Breach alone she would perish and they would have no means to close the rifts opening across the countryside. Cullen had run through the numbers on his own, and again several times with Vivienne, and Trevelyan had provided calculations of her own. They had a rough idea of the amount of energy and amplification required but Cullen was still not convinced the Herald could close the Breach, let alone survive it, even with support. Trevelyan was their only hope, but she was far from a certain one.

“Theoretically, I can close it,” Trevelyan said. “We intend to recruit templars from Therinfal Redoubt to assist.”

This was a debate over and done with, as both Cullen and Trevelyan had finally convinced the others that the templars would be the most suitable allies. The mask of the Viscount was unruffled, but Cullen knew Hawke well. _Please_, Cullen thought, _let it go. Please do not intervene. This once, just let it go._

“Champion,” Cassandra said, turning to her. “You said you knew of Grand Enchanter Fiona?”

Cullen closed his eyes wearily. Of course, Hawke had already gotten to Cassandra. He should have known, given three days, Hawke would manage to worm her way into the leadership’s confidences. Hawke had knack for insinuating herself into a group as though she’d been there all along, it was one of the many skills that made her such a valuable field agent. He’d taken advantage of this talent repeatedly when she was a contract mercenary on the Gallows’ payroll.

“I do,” Hawke said, her voice silky smooth. She was enjoying this. “Fiona is a talented mage well-known in Warden circles. She is the leader of the rebel mages in the Hinterlands. If her people are not recruited by the Inquisition they will be recruited by someone else.” She crossed her arms and rubbed her chin with her thumb, as though she’d just gotten an idea. “Your Worship, you have an opportunity. Those mages would be powerful opponents, but they could even more powerful allies.”

“An alliance with the mages could prove quite useful,” Sister Leliana said. “We still do not know the templars’ limitations or if suppressing the Breach will be enough.”

Sister Leliana had been pushing for an alliance with the mages from the start. Perhaps Hawke had ingratiated herself with the Spymaster as well, but it was just as likely Leliana was seizing an opportunity.

Cullen was not eager to reopen this argument, especially not today, when his body was at war with him. “The templars will serve,” Cullen said shortly. The matter was already settled and should not be up for debate. “We have already discussed the matter at great length, and Trevelyan and I agreed the templars would be more reliable allies.”

The moment the words were out of his mouth he waited for some underhanded barb, surely Hawke would have some needling comment on the reliability of templars, but she said nothing.

“As the Commander says, we have already decided to seek the support of the Order in Therinfal Redoubt,” Trevelyan said. She paused, and Cullen reflexively braced himself. Whenever Trevelyan paused like that she was about to drag something kicking and screaming into the light. She said, “Champion, I can appreciate you are sympathetic to the rebels, being an associate of the terrorist Anders.”

The corner of Hawke’s mouth only barely twitched, but Cullen perfectly visualized the blow hitting her square in the chest. Hawke smiled and said, “Your Worship, I believe the preferred term is revolutionary.”

“A terrorist is only a revolutionary if their people gain something by their action,” Trevelyan said. “Here we are, over a dozen Circles destroyed with the countryside painted in mage and tranquil blood, as Anders surely intended. We have gained nothing but chaos and death.”

“You claim to know Anders’ intent,” Hawke said. “With respect, I knew him personally and you did not.”

“My understanding of the state of Kirkwall is the terrorist Anders destroyed the Chantry to bait the current Knight-Commander, a paranoid and tyrant, into ordering the annulment of the Kirkwall Circle in retaliation. He engineered mass murder to incite a rebellion. He cared nothing for the Circle mages and tranquil, nor the clergy or the citizens of Kirkwall caught in the blast. They were acceptable collateral damage, and only terrorist willfully trade in collateral damage.” Trevelyan dabbed her nose with a handkerchief and said, “If you were such good friends with Anders, it is highly unlikely you did not know of his plans, or at least his philosophy. At the best you are a poor judge of character. At the worst you are a resolutionist. Unless I misunderstood the situation.”

Hawke looked at Cullen.

He shook his head once, barely. He had not told Trevelyan anything about the Kirkwall rebellion and he rejected any argument that Hawke was at fault, but he agreed with Trevelyan’s broader point--Anders had used fear as a weapon.

“Serah Hawke did her due diligence when she became aware the apostate Anders was unstable,” Cullen said. “She reported him to the proper authorities and worked closely with myself and--”

“Apostate? Even now, when we are knee-deep in civil war, you won’t say the word,” Trevelyan said. “Call him what he is.”

“I am fully aware of what Anders was,” Cullen said, more sharply than he intended. He would not stand by and listen as Hawke was branded a terrorist by association. It was not fair or right, and it was a gross mischaracterization of the situation. He would never forget his surprise when Hawke came to his office that day, smelling of lyrium and disheveled from a night of heavy drinking, two old addictions she’d steadfastly avoided for years, to tell him a man she cared about was no longer himself and had become a danger to society. It was the first time he’d ever seen her truly vulnerable, and she’d come to him not only because she trusted him, but because she was terrified for Anders and what he might do. For Trevelyan to sit here and cast blame, when she did not have an inkling of what Hawke had been through--

“Serah Trevelyan is right,” Hawke said, before he could say more. “Anders was a terrorist and I should have stopped him. I failed him, and I failed Kirkwall.”

Cullen wanted to protest. The Chantry explosion had not been her fault and no reasonable person should expect her to take the blame for it. He opened his mouth to say so, and Hawke quickly continued, “Rest assured, I will never make that mistake again. Grand Enchanter Fiona’s mages are not terrorists. They rebelled against the Chantry, that is true, but the more salient point is there is a large army of mages wandering the countryside and if the Inquisition does not recruit someone else will.”

“The Lady Ambassador has not yet mentioned the associated costs of harboring mages, so I will,” Trevelyan said. “When we take in these mages, we must provide shelter and sustenance and their resource needs will be considerable. We have no guarantees they have the training to provide the amplification we need. The Inquisition is not a charity.”

“They won’t make it out there alone,” Hawke said. “You and I both know that.”

“Then perhaps they shouldn’t have started a fight they couldn’t finish,” Trevelyan said. “Perhaps they should have considered what their options would be before they ruined everything. I would not expect an apostate to fully grasp the damage they have caused.”

“You understand because you were a Circle mage,” Hawke said.

Trevelyan was from the Ostwick Circle, but she’s said little on the matter. From what Cullen could gather she had lived a peaceful life there until the Circle fell and she was forced to seek protection with the mage delegation at the Conclave. Trevelyan supported the Order and the Circle System, and was consistently critical of those who broke rank, be they red templars or rebel mages. He’d marked her as an Aequitarian, a moderate who felt mages should behave responsibly and ethically and reasonably operate within the tenants of Chantry law.

“Yes,” Trevelyan said, “I have no idea what they hoped to accomplish by destroying their own Circles and instigating open war.” She brushed her temple. It was a subtle gesture, Cullen had seen mages do it before though he wasn’t quite sure what it meant. It was some colloquialism, apparently. “I appreciate your assistance as an agent of the Wardens. I am sure we will call on you in time.”

Even Cullen would have balked at a dismissal like that, but Hawke’s only reaction was the ghost of a smile as the Jester peered briefly from her eyes. “You have given me much to think about, your Worship. I will take my leave, then.”

It was unlike Hawke to drop an argument so suddenly, but it was the right move. She clearly wanted a seat at the table and she understood how limited her influence was. Trevelyan nodded, fairly glowing with the win, and when the door closed behind Hawke the headache receded enough to let him properly take stock of what had just happened.

Hawke had been asked here to provide information on the Grey Wardens but she’d managed to get away with divulging very little, all the while steering the leadership toward her own goals, one of which was apparently recruiting the rebel mages. He believed her when she said she wanted to assist in closing the Breach, but there was clearly a great deal she was not telling them.

Leliana said, “We cannot afford to divide the Inquisition’s resources at present, but it would be useful to gather more intelligence on the rebel mages and their capabilities. Lady Amell could conduct her own inquiry into the rebel mages and confirm if they will be an asset to us.”

“Commander, you’ve known her for some time. Do you trust her?” Trevelyan asked, and all eyes swiveled to him.

“I trust Hawke,” he said, promptly. “She is an excellent field agent with much to offer.” He paused, considering. “She keeps her cards close to her chest by nature, but that does not mean we cannot trust her or put her skills to good use. We would be wise to keep her busy, however.”

This earned a quiet laugh from Leliana, who said, “I understand Lady Amell has a reputation for taking on…” She considered the wording. “…Charitable causes.”

“That would be an understatement,” he said.

He found it easier to concentrate now that he was free of Hawke’s presence, and the remainder of the meeting passed quickly without incident, though it seemed Trevelyan was a bit quieter than usual. When they dispersed and he was once again alone with the map, he looked down at all the tiny flags, his eye naturally drawn to the purple flag in the center of Haven.

He had many questions for Hawke, questions he was nowhere near ready to ask. Are you all right? Are we going to be able to work together? Are you going to give me another chance? Why did you break my heart? Did you realize I was in love with you?

The last was becoming increasingly uncertain. He’d thought his feelings were plain, he’d put them out in writing for her, but the bitterness in her voice when she spoke of friendship made him wonder.

Cullen did not understand Hawke. Perhaps he never truly had. He did not understand how she could reject him so completely and utterly yet maintain the belief he was at fault for the abrupt dissolution of their relationship. Did she truly not understand how deeply she’d hurt him, what it was like to be slapped down like that after finally opening up to another person and sharing such profound intimacy?

He did not have the courage to ask, and even if he had, he did not expect a direct answer. Hawke had always danced around emotion and feeling, preferring to hide behind jests and deflections. She rarely asked direct questions, but when she did they were often cloaked in meaning. He replayed their disjointed conversation in his head, stopping when she asked, “Did you ever even care about Kirkwall?”

He hadn’t. He’d had no allegiance to the City of Chains, only to the Order, and as the gears of bureaucracy churned and things went from rotten to worse he wanted to be away from all of it. He’d only ever truly cared about his job and Hawke, and once she was gone and he was completely disillusioned with the Order it was pointless to stay. It seemed the city itself had shared his sentiment; Hawke worked tirelessly to hold Kirkwall together, but as soon as she was gone it had all fallen apart. Seneschal Bran Cavin, having been voted provisional Viscount, was unable to appeal to the Prince of Starkhaven, and Sebastian sent an occupational force within a fortnight. Prince Sebastian’s righteous anger at the death of the Grand Cleric and the ousting of his consort would not be appeased until the city of Kirkwall, and her lucrative ports, were under Starkhaven’s control.

Cullen recalled his last conversation with Bran. The interim Viscount looked haggard and unwell, his desk piled with parchment. “He might as well have spit in her face,” Bran remarked, when the subject of the occupational army was inevitably broached. “After the promises that were made, to breach her walls… Men of faith truly are the worst,” he said.

“Her?” Cullen echoed. “You mean… Hawke? Or Kirkwall?”

“They are the same,” Bran said.

It was the first time they’d spoken of Hawke privately since Bran had returned his letter. Cullen knew Hawke cared about Kirkwall, she’d fought and bled and nearly died for it, but he hadn’t appreciated how intertwined her identity had become with the city she’d once governed until that moment.

_Did you ever even care about Kirkwall?_

He let out a slow, weary breath. Enough, enough. He was going around in circles. At least the migraine had subsided. With that, he did what he had always done when introspection veered dangerously close to revelation: he closed the door and threw himself into his work, submerging himself in the minutiae of his position so he might not hear the the persistent whispers of his heart.

Fortunately for Cullen, in the end, no matter how much he tried to ignore it, his heart would always find a way.


	5. INTERMISSION: On Tagging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric explains how AO3 tags work.

**Title:** "On Tagging"

We hear a quill scratching on parchment.

INT. STORY PAGE - NIGHT

COMMANDER CULLEN (30) and VARRIC (40) are sitting at a small square table on a dark, empty stage. A single light source illuminates the center of the table and encompasses them both. Cullen sits at the far right side of the table, reading through a draft and making notes, while Varric sits on the opposite side writing. A lone ink pot sits on the table between them.

  
CULLEN  
Varric, you listed information at the top of the sheet. What is all this for?

VARRIC  
(glances up)  
Oh, that. It’s just information about the story so people can decide if they want to read it. They’re called tags.

CULLEN  
I see. Categories, characters... You left the rating blank.

VARRIC  
Yeah, I don’t believe in that. Read at your own risk.

CULLEN  
Fair enough.  
(Continues reading.)  
What’s this… Callen-backslash-Violet?

VARRIC  
That’s a pairing tag. It means they’re a couple. Some readers are only interested in stories about their favorite characters getting together.  
(Thoughtful look.)  
Do you have an opinion on that?

CULLEN  
Seems like you’re spoiling the story.

VARRIC  
You’re assuming they get together by the end. Maybe they were a couple before the story started. Or after, in an epilogue. The reader wouldn’t know until the end anyway, and by then it’s too late.

CULLEN  
(with consternation)  
Varric, that's misleading.

VARRIC  
Misleading or--

CULLEN  
(interrupts)  
Actually, that’s not just misleading, it’s an outright lie. You’re the writer, you can’t do that.

VARRIC  
(unconcerned)  
Lie or lark?

CULLEN  
(ignores him, returns to parchment)  
Here’s another one. Callen-backslash-Violet, then parenthesis N-S-F… What is that acronym?

VARRIC  
Never say farewell.

CULLEN  
Oh. That seems nice.

VARRIC  
It is. It’s always Cassandra’s favorite part.


	6. The Red Lyrium Stabbity Gang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric has seen a welcome burst in creative productivity now that he and Hawke are back together, but concerns about Hawke simmer in the back of his mind.

Varric was on his bedroll, pen scratching by the light of a flickering lantern, when Hawke unceremoniously slapped the tent flap up, chucked her own bedroll beside his, and flopped onto it, scattering fragments of straw and dust. He did not mind the intrusion nor was he surprised by it. Hawke hated sleeping alone. Previously she’d shared her large canopied bed with Nug, the great old mabari warhound, but Nug was gone now, having died defending her master in the tunnels beneath the Keep. Varric did not mind sharing his tent temporarily but he’d have to get her another dog, or a bunkmate, or both. Hawke’s snoring was the stuff of legends and he needed his beauty sleep.

Varric adjusted the lantern. "If you're sleeping here can I have your cabin?" he asked.

"I lost it in a card game," she said. "I can't believe it. I cheated and everything."

"Who won?"

"Some mercenary,” she said, in a bored tone.

"One of the Chargers, then. A strapping young fellow, perhaps?" Varric had a pretty good idea how Hawke had managed to lose in spite of "cheating and everything." Her predilection for younger men had not dampened with age. He made a mental note to make some discrete inquiries about Cremisius and said, "I've nearly finished this chapter, if you want to hear it."

Hawke grunted and rolled over, turning her back to him. Her disinterest in his writing used to bother him, but he’d come to realize she was functionally illiterate. She faked it admirably and refused to discuss the matter, but she’d once commented in passing that letters looked wrong to her, whatever that meant. Fenris, being self-taught from books in the Amell Estate library, attempted to teach her the trade tongue and some bits of Tevene. He failed in all respects but one: Hawke could now legibly write “festis bei umo canavarum” with all of the letters facing the correct direction.

Of course, understanding why she was disinterested never stopped him from trying to entice her. "You’ll like this one," he said. “There’s a bit of setup, but once you get to the meat of it…”

“Anything that keeps me awake," she said.

He allowed his quill to rest on the parchment and a circle of ink formed at the tip. "Bad dreams?" he asked. After Kirkwall he swore he would ask questions like this more often and not accept a deflective joke as an answer. Hawke would have someone to talk to about painful things, uncomfortable things, whether she thought she needed someone or not.

"The tunnels under the Keep again," she said. She normally didn’t divulge half that and doing so evidently made her uneasy. She rolled again, unable to get comfortable. She’d always been a restless spirit but she was far more fidgety and anxious these days than he remembered.

“Hawke, are you okay?” he asked.

She sighed. “I’m fine, Varric. Don’t worry about me.”

“Have you spoken to Cullen?” he ventured, knowing full well she had.

“There’s no point.”

“Why?” he asked, with a sinking feeling. “Is the red lyrium? Is it getting worse?”

She shifted. “Don’t be ridiculous, I barely notice it. He’s an ass, that’s all.”

Varric didn’t characterize Cullen that way. Being the even-handed arbiter of his friend’s disastrous interpersonal relationships, he felt obligated to set the record straight as he understood it. “Hawke,” he began.

“Yes, yes, of course, you have an opinion. Let’s hear it.”

“He says he didn’t know about the coup and I believe him."

“He was the Knight-Commander, it was his bloody job to know,” she said. “At the very least he could take some responsibility, but since he doesn’t need me any longer he can’t be bothered. Mages only warrant consideration when they’re immediately useful.” The bitterness in her voice was new. In the beginning she’d always spoken of Cullen in a careless, detached way. Over the years her tone softened but she’d always maintained Cullen was a templar and she did had no expectations beyond that. This new bitterness and anger tracked with what Cullen said about having a private relationship.

Varric pretended to resume his writing. Asking Hawke a direct personal question was always a risky proposition, but he rolled the dice. “What did you see in him, anyway?” he asked, as casually as he could muster.

She didn’t immediately launch a volley of jokes, which was promising. “He was safe,” she said.

“What do you mean, safe?” Varric asked. “He was the Knight-Captain, the only person less safe to an apostate would have been Knight-Commander Meredith herself.”

“Between you and me, I don’t care for the blondes,” Hawke said. “They’re always so pasty. Granted, Meredith’s circlet was amazing, but the boots? Honestly.”

Going, going, gone. How elusive the truth was where Lavender Hawke was conerned! “Hawke,” he said. “I’m asking for a moment of sincerity.”

“Between you and me? He really fills out a skirt. Say what you want about the Order, with the mass incarceration and systemic abuses, they’ve got swaying hips down pat.”

“_Hawke_,” he said, almost begging.

“I ought have become one myself just for the uniform. If I were a sexy templar, imagine all the naughty things I could get up to,” she said. She clucked her tongue. “Dirty little mages, all locked up in their cells, probably ravenous for a good--”

“Alright already. Forget it.” Varric sighed and began sorting through his parchment. “I’m sorry I asked.”

“You know, Varric,” she continued. “If I rustled up some of that armor maybe we could--”

“Sweet Andraste, I’m sorry I brought it up!” he said, holding up both hands to ward off her mercenary advance. “Have mercy on me, for once.” She laughed, a low, rolling chuckle that put him somewhat at ease. “Are you finished creeping me out?” he asked.

“Relax, Varric,” she said, stretching out her legs and crossing her feet at the ankles. “You can stop rooting. Templars are off the menu. I learned my lesson.”

Varric wanted to ask, “Have you though?” but he was wary of provoking her further. Maker knew what horrible mental pictures she’d conjure up to punish him for prying. “Have you decided what you’re going to do about the Wardens?” he asked. “Cassandra has been pushing for information. I told her I don’t know anything, but I don’t think she believes me which--well, I guess that’s fair. But she gets a little scarier each time she asks.”

“We’ll have to wait and see. I’ll continue to gain the inner circle’s trust. A few favors here, a few murders there… ”

“Convincing Trevelyan might not be so easy,” Varric said.

“On the contrary. Trevelyan and I have already had a little one-on-one. She asked me to meet with a mage in Redcliffe on her behalf,” Hawke said. She tucked her arm under her head and added, “I’ve been here five minutes and the established power is already sending me on dangerous covert missions. It feels like old times.”

“Why’d she ask you?” he asked. He’d gotten the impression that Trevelyan was, at the very least, wary and skeptical of Hawke.

“Clearly my reputation as a tremendous singer, capable of softening the hearts of the most hardened deviants, has preceded me.”

“Yeah, I’m going to need to hear a few bars,” Varric said. “Or you can just tell me the real reason.”

Hawke rolled over to face him. “She wanted to know about the Gallows, what it was like and how Cullen ran things. She wanted to know if I thought mages would be safe under his command. I told her what I thought and she evidently trusts me enough to go to Redcliffe on her behalf, with the understanding I would look into the red lyrium deposits in the Hinterlands while I was there.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her Cullen wasn’t a psychopath, if that’s what she was worried about, and after we got the mages out of Redcliffe we’d have more to discuss. You’re coming with me, by the way. To record my exploits and further memorialize my glory.”

“Of course,” Varric said. Hitting the road with Hawke was vastly preferable to sitting around Haven freezing his nugs off and doing his bloody best to avoid Cassandra Pentaghast. Travel was conducive to writing, he’d found.

“We need a name,” she said. “Something catchy.”

“Varric and Hawke isn’t catchy enough?” he asked.

“Hawke and Varric,” she corrected. “And I was thinking along the lines of the Red Lyrium Stabbity Gang.”

“It’s accurate,” he said. “You do stab things. But something like Red Lyrium Exploratory Committee is a bit more dignified.”

“Bah,” Hawke said. “Who needs dignity when you’ve got two daggers and fifty sovereigns for travel expenses.”

“Fifty?” Varric asked, with a laugh. “How did you manage that?” The Inquisition’s coffers were tight as a drum, he was constantly being asked to court various Orlesian nobles and convince them to donate to the cause.

“I haven’t yet, but I will,” she said. “For the bribes and the diplomacy and whatnot. Whatever I need to bring them ‘round to our side.”

“You mean to bankroll games of Wicked Grace.”

“Well, if the mages insist on playing for their allegiance I could hardly say no,” she said.

They lapsed into companionable silence. Varric resumed his edits and when Hawke reached out, questing, he wordlessly took her hand in his. Her scarred, rough palm was always a tad too warm, as though the elemental magic within her sat just below the skin, waiting to be released.

He knew Lavender had invited him along because she liked him and he was the Inquisition’s foremost authority on red lyrium, but she was also trying to get him out of Haven. She had not voiced concern for his wellbeing, but he had seen it in the line of her brow--the look she’d so frequently given Anders and Cullen throughout the years she was now giving him.

Perhaps she was right. It would do him good to travel, see the sights, meet new people, kill things. He was fed up with templars and mages and their sodding war, but if he had to pick, he’d go with the mages this time. He had little doubt Hawke felt the same way.

Hawke shifted yet again on the bedroll, let out a dramatic sigh, and said, "All right, let's hear your terrible story. What's this one about?"

Varric cleared his throat and said, "Chapter eight. The Champion and the Mercenary. After losing yet another game of Wicked Grace the Champion couldn’t stop thinking about--"

"Varric, no," she said weakly, covering her ears and burrowing into the worn bedroll.

He laughed and reached to toss the edge of his meager blanket over her hunched form. "All right, all right.” He adjusted his glasses. “Chapter eight. The Champion and her loyal companion, the greatest writer in Thedas, form the Red Lyrium Stabbity Gang, much to the chagrin of everyone."

"Much better," she said, snuggling up beside him.

***

Varric roused in the late morning, having fallen asleep with a stack of parchment in his lap. The pages were filled, notes spilling into the margins. Hawke’s bedroll was cold beside him. She’d always been an early riser. He rolled the parchment and put it in his sachet, considered his heavy woolen Inquisition cloak, discarded it, and settled on his favorite purple shirt. He left his tent, blinking in the bright winter sunlight, and peered into the empty pot at the cooking fire.

“That Champion of yours can eat,” one of the scouts said. She looked into the pot forlornly.

Varric chuckled. “Sorry,” he said.

He tromped up the snow-kissed path to the tavern, greeted by a sparkle of sunlight on the frozen cobblestones. It was welcoming and warm in the tavern and he took his usual seat and spread his parchment on the table. He’d started working on a new book after Hawke arrived, tentatively titled Tales of the Inquisition’s Agents. He’d nearly used up all his ink and would have to beg more from the Ambassador.

“Where’s your friend?” Flissa asked, putting down an ale.

“Probably running circles around the lake,” Varric said, taking a drink.

“The usual?” Flissa asked.

“Of course,” he said. He wet the tip of his quill on his tongue.

> _Callen regretted hurting the Champion more than anything, but he couldn’t bring himself to make amends and tell her how he felt. It was just as well. She was better off without him. He would never want to do anything to get in the way of her happiness with Crassus._
> 
> _Still, as he lay alone in his tent in the wintry night he could not stop thinking of her strong arms around him. He’d made many mistakes, but she believed in him and his capacity to be a good person. He’d felt safe with her._
> 
> _Yes, the Champion was a special person, and they’d had a special relationship, and he’d ruined it by being a stubborn jackass. If only he’d been willing to talk to her. Instead, he’d curled up in his armored shell, too afraid of being hurt to take any chances. Even now after all these years he couldn’t bring himself to speak frankly to her. Perhaps his heart was doomed to forever drown in its own fears._
> 
> _“Crassus,” he wept, in the darkness. “You lucky bastard.”_

The door to the tavern joyfully slammed open. Hawke had a bag and a line slung over her shoulder, and on it, a row of fish. Hawke gave her haul to Flissa and slid into the seat across from him, all elbows and knees, barely able to fit on the small bench. “Should only take about two days to Redcliffe, using the boats,” she said, taking a drink of his ale. “We’ll be there before you know it.” She smacked her lips. “Aaah, yes, beer done right.”

She was lying, of course. The trip should take at least three days. When it came to logistics and grand adventures Hawke tended to be cagey with the details, especially when traveling with friends who hated hiking.

“Want one?” he asked.

She shook her head and pushed it back to him. He didn’t think a beer every now and then would hurt, but Hawke’s self-discipline in such matters was iron-clad.

Varric’s stomach rumbled when Flissa put a plate of grilled perch before him. It had taken some coaching, and they’d burned up quite a few lake fish, but Flissa could now grill to match the finest street vendors in Kirkwall. He nudged the turnips and potatoes aside and dug in. Freshwater fish tasted different than saltwater fish--more fishy in his opinion--but it was much easier on his stomach than the heavy, fatty sausage stew the Fereldans kept insisting on.

Hawke speared a few turnips on her dagger and said, “Leave around mid-morning?” She knew the Chargers used the training field in the early morning, before Inquisition troops were rounded up.

“Sure. Say hello to Krem for me.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, spearing the remaining potatoes, and marched out.

Varric picked up his quill again.

> _The Champion volunteered to make the dangerous journey into the Hinterlands to form an alliance with the human and elvish mages who were skirmishing with the murderous red templars. The mages were in dire need of help and had no one to turn to. It was a war-torn region, rife with danger and suffering._
> 
> _“Is allying with the rebel mages really a good idea?” Merrit asked. Before the Circles fell across Southern Thedas he had been among those who felt mages were oppressed, but the Kirkwall Rebellion had shown him the destructive power mages possessed. Now rebel mages freely roamed the countryside and there was nothing to stop them from using magic to take whatever they wanted. They could use blood magic or forge alliances with demons and with the templars in disarray few were equipped to stop them. Could these mages, having turned on the Chantry and the templars, really be trusted outside the checks and balances of the Circle system?_
> 
> _“We can help each other,” the Champion said. “We can’t afford to miss this opportunity.”_
> 
> _Merrit admired his friend’s willingness to treat people fairly but at times he wished she was more pragmatic. “Most of the rebel mages are innocent people trying to survive, but not all of them. Do dangerous mages really deserve a chance?”_
> 
> _“It’s not a chance, Merrit,” she said. “It’s an opportunity. Everyone must have the opportunity.”_
> 
> _Of course, being a powerful mage herself, the Champion also had the firepower to protect herself. She could afford to give such opportunities to_

The tavern door opened. Cullen scanned the room, looking more grim than usual.

“Hey, Curly,” Varric said, in a let’s-be-friends sort of way.

“Varric,” Cullen said. His tone was guarded, but he too seemed amenable. “Have you seen Hawke?”

“Nope,” Varric said. “She’s an early riser. I think she went fishing. Probably won’t be back for a while.”

Cullen studied his plate, apparently thinking, and said, “Varric, how is she?”

Varric took him in, head to toe. A former Knight-Commander, armored just as thoroughly as he had been in Kirkwall. Already his face was faintly sheen with sweat, the dark circles under his eyes prominent. Could Cullen be the sort of friend Hawke needed right now? Try as he might, Varric had difficulty seeing past the mountain of mage-templar baggage that stretched between the two. Maybe there was too much history, too much hurt, for them to reconcile. Maybe distance was the best thing for both of them.

“Not great, Curly,” Varric said. Inadequate, to be sure, but it was the best he could come up with on the spot.

Cullen didn’t flinch exactly but his reaction was something close to it. He excused himself, leaving as quickly as he’d arrived. Varric sighed, his pleasant mood diminished somewhat, and took a drink before resuming his work.

> _“Do you want to say goodbye to Callen?” Merrit asked. The Champion and the Commander had a falling out but it was the sort of fight that could only happen between people who cared about each other. It seemed to him, for all of Callen’s youth and foolishness, he truly had feelings for the Champion, <strike>perhaps even loved her.</strike> Hadn’t they all been young fools once?_
> 
> _“No,” the Champion said. “It’s for the best.”_
> 
> _Merrit wondered if Callen and the Champion would ever mend their wounded hearts. He watched the Champion saddling her horse and wondered if love was worth the risk. She, above all others, deserved to be happy, and he would be the last person to stand in the way of_

Varric’s quill ran dry. He dipped it into the ink pot and heard the clink of glass. It was just as well, this chapter was a mess. The whole thing needed to be restructured and rewritten. Sighing, he bundled up his parchment and tucked it into his satchel.

Outside Haven was bustling. The clamor of metal echoed across the training fields as soldiers went about their morning exercises, sounding not unlike miners seeking ore. A pair of scouts hurried past him, their footfalls light on the gravel. Up the path, toward the Chantry, a cluster of Sisters chattered as the day’s orders were passed around, their breath soft plumes in the chilly air.

“Sorry,” the Quartermaster told him. “Waiting on ink from Jader. It’s reserved for leadership only, I’m instructed to give charcoal to the troops.”

“Thanks, I’ve got some,” Varric told her. As if he’d deign to write with charcoal. He glanced down at the training field and saw Hawke talking with a group of Chargers. She punctuated whatever she was saying with a vaguely lewd hand gesture and they burst into laughter. Even from this distance he noted how closely she and Krem stood. Krem slapped her on the shoulder and she grinned.

Varric’s heart constricted in a bittersweet way. He was glad to see her happy, even temporarily, but it made him miss their days at the Hanged Man all the more.

“Champion!” a voice called. A templar hustled up behind Hawke, clanking in Chantry steel.

Hawke’s right hand abruptly flexed. It was a gesture Varric had seen many times, right before she cast something powerful and burning. He sucked in a breath and hurried toward her. Fortunately, Krem was there. He put a hand on Hawke’s shoulder and this seemed to ground her; her hand dropped to her side, her posture relaxing.

Crisis averted, Varric slowed to a stop, hanging back to observe. Hawke had always had good reflexes, but that wasn’t a controlled reflex, it was panic at the sound of templar steel. Was that normal? The quick look exchanged between Krem and Dalish suggested it wasn’t.

Varric shook his head as if shaking the thought away, disgusted with himself. Hawke was perfectly fine, there was nothing wrong with being alert and aware of one’s surroundings. Granted they were safe in Haven, in the middle of the Inquisition camp, but that was no reason not to stay sharp.

“Champion!” the templar was saying, oblivious to what had nearly transpired. “Are you the Champion in the book?”

“Depends,” Hawke told her. “Are you talking about the official book or one of the unauthorized dirty ones?”

The Chargers laughed.

“It is you! You’re the Champion in the Tale of the Champion! Could you sign my copy?” the young templar gushed, holding out an embattled bit of coal wrapped in a rag. “Do you need a quill? I can find a quill.”

“Nonsense, this is perfect,” Hawke said, and she drew on the page. “My family crest. Far better than a name.”

“Oh, thank you!” the templar said, clutching the book to her armored chest.

“If you’re a fan then you know the real hero is--” Hawke scanned the camp and spotted him nearby. “--That dwarf over there.” Hawke pointed across the field at him. “That’s Varric Tethras, the greatest writer in Thedas. Hey, Varric!” she called, waving.

“Damn it, Hawke,” he muttered under his breath, as all heads turned to him. He sighed and held up a hand, waving back.

Of course, Hawke wasn’t finished. “If you ask nicely maybe he’ll put you in the sequel,” she continued. “You should give him your story ideas, if you have any. He loves it when fans do that.”

“Hawke, you bastard,” Varric whispered. He ducked behind the nearest tent. He liked talking about his work, but he’d been hoping to get another chapter written before they hit the road and that wouldn’t happen with a fan at his heels. He made his way carefully down the row, then broke from the cover of the tents to take the path up to the Chantry.

“Ser Tethras!” the templar blurted from behind him, startling him. “Can you sign my book? I mean your book!”

Varric sighed. So much for one more chapter. When he took the book from her he saw it was a fifth printing, worn and ragged with dogeared pages. She’d bound it up with twine to keep some of the loose pages from falling out. Varric was used to Orlesian nobles presenting him with pristine first printings that looked as though they’d hardly been cracked open, or deluxe editions with foil-embossed leather. To see a copy that had been so clearly loved put a genuine smile on his face.

“This book has seen some action,” he remarked.

“I take it everywhere, ser,” she said. “Ever since I left home it’s been with me.”

“Well, I’m happy to sign it, but charcoal won’t do and I’m out of ink--”

She stared at him. “Then you can’t write your next book! No, this won’t do! I can march out to the caravan, ser, just say the word!”

“That won’t be necessary,” Varric said. “I’ll check with the Ambassador. I’m sure she can spare a pot.”

The templar’s armored hands went to her mouth. “You know Lady Josephine Montilyet?” she whispered.

“We’re acquaintances,” Varric said. The templar eagerly trailed along behind him as he made his way up the path to the Chantry, issuing a non-stop stream of chatter.

“The Champion is taller than I thought and looks so brave. Of course, I knew she was brave, but she looks even braver than I imagined. And her arms. She’s so strong! I must train until I’m as strong as her!”

“Hawke is pretty tough,” Varric said, reaching to open the Chantry doors, but the templar hurriedly pushed ahead to open them for him.

“And now we’re going to see Lady Montilyet. She’s the most handsome person I’ve ever seen. Don’t you think so?”

“Humans aren’t really my thing, but sure, she’s attractive.”

“Oh, I see,” the templar said. “Have you written any stories about dwarves? Any romances? I love your romances.”

He paused at the door to the Ambassador’s office. “You know, I haven’t written anything dwarf-centric since my first book. It didn’t sell well.”

“Oh, of course it didn’t, it was only your first book. The first one never sells well, unless you’re lucky or rich or related to the Queen of Orlais. Now you’re famous and everyone knows how wonderful your books are, everyone will be so eager to read all your stories about dwarves.”

He blinked at her. “That’s one way of looking at it,” he said, and opened the door.

“There she is,” the templar breathed, a bit too loudly, as Josephine looked up from where she was writing at her desk.

“Ambassador,” Varric said. “Just the person I needed to speak to.”

“How fortuitous, Varric,” Josephine said. “You are just the person I needed to speak to.” _Oh boy_, he thought. The Ambassador was the only member of the Inquisition leadership who called on him in a writerly capacity, but she made enough requests for the lot of them. “We are preparing a diplomatic trip to Val Royeaux. Your book has sold quite well in Orlais and a number of persons of importance are interested in the possibility of meeting you. Perhaps you could accompany us.”

“I’ll think about it,” he said. “I just…”

Before he could finish, she said, “Ink, I presume. Commander Cullen took my last two bottles.”

Varric highly doubted that, Josephine Montilyet was not the sort of person who would give up her last bottle of ink, let alone the last two. Nevertheless, he bowed and thanked her, and left the office and made a sharp right to the cramped little closet the Commander had commandeered as his own. He knocked on the door.

“You know Commander Cullen?” the templar whispered. She was clutching the book to her chest again. “Are you friends?”

“Sure, we’re friends,” Varric said. “Uh, probably.”

Cullen opened the door and sighed irritably when he saw who it was. He looked even rougher around the edges than he had earlier that morning. “Varric,” he said. “Whatever it is--” His eye fell to the young templar, who immediately stiffened into a salute. “Oh,” he said. “Hello.”

“Commander, this is… uh…” Varric paused.

“Agatha of Jader,” the templar said. “Ser.”

“You are a new recruit,” Cullen said.

“Yes, ser, I am ready to prove myself, I want to be a great templar just like you.”

Cullen gazed down at her and his look grew distant, as though he’d gone somewhere far away in his mind. Varric was no stranger to that look. He gently said, “Commander, we need some ink.”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Ink.” Cullen retrieved a small, corked bottle and said, “With the understanding it’s my last.”

“Of course,” Varric said, as if Cullen would ever give up his last bottle of ink for any reason. Why must everyone lie all the time? He was the writer, that was his job. He managed to herd the templar, bubbling with bows and sers, out of the Chantry and when they were outside in the crisp air once more he took a seat on the wall and rummaged through his bag for a quill. Finding it, he signed his name with a flourish on the inside cover next to Hawke’s charcoal sketch of the Amell crest.

“Oh, thank you, Ser Tethras,” she gushed. “What are you writing now? I’m so excited for your next book.”

“I’m working on a sequel about the Champion joining the Inquisition,” he said.

She fairly squeaked. “Oh, Maker, do they get together?”

Varric had little doubt who “they” was, he’d gotten countless mail on the subject of Callen and Violet, nearly a quarter of it incoherent. “I don’t know yet,” he said. “I go wherever the story takes me.”

“That’s so romantic!” the templar said. “You’re just pouring out the words, the story has a mind of its own! Like a force of nature! Like the elements! You are a but a humble servant to the creative gods!”

“Hey, now,” he said. “I have a strong hand in this. I control what’s happening, I don’t let it go willy-nilly all over the place. But I do let them talk amongst themselves.”

“I knew it was like that,” the templar said. “I can tell, the way you write they’re just so natural! The characters come alive, and…” She drew a quick breath. “What are they saying to you? She’s so strong and brave, and he’s so beautiful and good-intentioned. They clearly love each other. Will they finally--oooh, no, don’t tell me! I don’t want to spoil what happens, I want to read it myself! I can’t wait!” She bowed deeply, with a solid clank. “Thank you, ser! I will keep myself busy training hard, I cannot wait to read it! Have a good day ser! Thank you again!”

“You’re welcome,” he said, as the templar all but skipped away.

He went to his tent to finish packing and was unsurprised to see Hawke’s bedroll and meager personal possessions were already gone. He packed a few extra sheets of parchment, an extra quill, and a light blanket, along with his crossbow and quiver, flint and firesteel, a canteen, and several days worth of dried meat. Hawke was an adequate hunter and butcher, and he could also fell game in a pinch, but that would only make the journey longer. Better to make do at taverns along the way and subsist on jerky if he had to.

Varric found Hawke in the empty stables near the training field sharpening her blades. “The Inquisition has acquired a source for mounts,” she commented, when his shadow passed over her, “But the horses won’t arrive for weeks yet.”

“I wouldn’t be caught dead riding a horse,” Varric said.

Hawke laughed. “You’d travel twice as fast. What do you hate more, horses or hiking?”

“It’s a tough call,” Varric said grimly. He saw she was only halfway done and settled down for one last attempt at a chapter. “At least walking is good for my creativity.”

He took out his draft and, after a moment of consideration, crossed out the last few paragraphs with sweeping x’s.

> _“Do you want to say goodbye to Callen?” Merrit asked. The Champion and the Commander had a falling out, the sort of fight that could only happen between people who cared about each other. It seemed to Merrit that for all of Callen’s youth and foolishness he truly wanted the best for the Champion. Hadn’t they all been young fools once?_

“Messere Hawke?”

Varric glanced up as the young soldier saluted.

Hawke paused, the whetstone resting along the corner of her dagger.

“From the Commander,” the soldier said, holding out a small parchment bundle.

Hawke blinked, then said, “All right,” and accepted the package. The soldier saluted again and departed.

Varric’s curiosity was such he couldn’t have averted his eyes if he wanted to, but Hawke made no effort to keep the contents private. She peeled back the paper and removed a small cotton handkerchief. The thin cloth was embroidered with tiny knights holding shields.

Varric looked over his shoulder, toward the training grounds. Cullen was standing on the parapet overlooking the yard, observing drills. “What do you think?” he asked.

“He needs this more than me,” Hawke said. Her voice was flat, difficult to read. “I don’t do goodbyes, he knows that. He’ll curse the bloody mission before it’s even started. How did he even know we were leaving?”

“Maybe it’s more like good luck, or see you soon,” Varric suggested. He also wondered how Cullen had known they were leaving camp but the answer came to him as soon as the question was asked. Cullen was keeping an eye on Hawke. Of course, that should come as no surprise, in Kirkwall Cullen had always known exactly where to find them. Maybe he was worried about her, or maybe he was simply accustomed to keeping track of powerful free mages, but after their brief exchange in the tavern Varric felt certain it was the former.

Hawke blew an irritated breath through her nose, but she folded the handkerchief with care and tucked it under her chest plate. Varric had once teased her about her tendency to carry things over her heart, it was an oddly sentimental habit.

“I think you really are a bit of a romantic,” Varric said.

“Best friend or no, use the r-word around me and you’ll be sorry,” she told him, holding up a fist, and Varric smiled and returned to his story.

> _“I don’t like goodbyes,” the Champion said. She had always been superstitious about such things._
> 
> _But what if we don’t come back? Merrit wondered. Of course, they always came back, they were skilled adventurers, but there was always the chance something might go wrong. He wanted to ask, do you realize Callen cares about you? but this was not the time, and it was not his place._

Hawke sheathed her daggers and stood, brushing herself off, before she shrugged on her pack. Varric rolled up his parchment and stuck it in a side pocket along with a bit of charcoal, within easy grabbing distance, in case he was seized by some inspiration that could not wait for the luxury of ink.

They both looked out at the parapet. Cullen saw them and lifted his hand.

Hawke hesitated before lifting her own in reply.

“So you forgive him?” Varric asked.

“I’ll forgive him when he bloody well apologizes,” she said, turning abruptly away. “What am I supposed to do, snub him and let him agonize over it for weeks?”

“Then you’re humoring him,” Varric said as they marched down the long, winding road that led into the valley. He’d long ago learned to keep pace with her longer strides, and he knew she often measured her pace on his account. “So you do care about him. Otherwise, you wouldn’t bother.”

“Varric, you talk too much,” she said.

“I don’t know why you’re annoyed. It’s a…” He caught himself before he said ‘romantic,’ and instead wisely said, “Nice gesture.”

“Nice,” she said quietly, as though she were testing the word.

“Yeah, nice, you know, things people do for people they care about?”

She looked down at him, smiling. “Varric,” she said. “You are a good friend.”

“Well, yeah, but what does that have to do with anything?”

Her smile broadened. “Tell me a story.”

“You have to promise not to interrupt,” he said.

“I promise.”

He considered, cycling through his stories, and the Dasher’s Men came to him. He might not have thought of it if not for the templar asking about stories about dwarves. He said, “Once there were two casteless brothers--”

“Were they best friends?” she asked.

“Hawke,” he sighed. She couldn’t even contain herself for the first sentence.

“Sorry,” she said. “Were they?”

Not originally. The brothers in Dasher’s Men were based on himself and his brother Bertrand. They weren’t even close to being friends. But times changed, writers changed, and their stories changed too. He took a moment to reorganize it in his mind, then said, “Not at first, but you have to be patient. And no more interruptions.”

He took her silence as assent, and continued. “Two casteless brothers found themselves trapped in a war between the Carta and the Merchant’s Guild…” he began, as they walked down the muddy, gravel-strewn mountainside path.


	7. To Know You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trevelyan travels to Therinfal Redoubt to secure the aid of the templars stationed there and quickly learns all is not as it seems.

After nearly a week traveling by wagon Therinfal Redoubt loomed before them, shrouded in the fog of the Southron Hills. The fortress was studded with parapets and draped in the red flags of the Templar Order. It once served as a training ground for the Seekers of the Truth, the Chantry’s elite templar investigation force, but it was abandoned for years until Seeker Lucius quartered the Fereldan templars there. 

Even to Trevelyan’s untrained eye Therinfal was too large and sprawling for its intended purpose. Lord Trevelyan would have called it “statement architecture.” The Chantry spared no expense constructing a fortress that could not be overrun in a location no one would ever want to overrun, just far enough outside trade routes and existing road systems to inflate the cost of supplying and staffing it. By bringing the remaining organized templars here Lucius was effectively hiding them away from the world, sequestering them like brothers and sisters in a cloister.

The fortress was meant to inspire awe, but when Trevelyan gazed upon it all she saw was impenetrable, lonely hubris, emphasized by the wet, aging templar banners clinging to the stones. The wagon roads leading from the Imperial Highway were muddy and hazardous and the small Orlesian noble attache they traveled with spent most of the journey complaining about everything--the rain, the mud, the Fereldans, the food. Nevertheless, the nobility bravely weathered savage conditions for the privilege of having a hand in history, of being able to say they were somewhere important at a significant time. The caravan encountered no trouble on the road, only minor inconveniences--even the bandits could not be bothered with this remote, muddy place--and they’d made relatively good time when they joined the Orlesian nobles who had already congregated outside the fortress.

Trevelyan had traveled with Seeker Cassandra, Solas, and Lady Vivienne before, but not together. She had been dreading the journey, for she still found travel exhausting and difficult, but she discovered she enjoyed having a respite from the demands of Haven. She was secretly thrilled by the subtle competition between the two women, both masters in their respective fields, and spent much of her time observing them, listening to quiet lectures from Solas, reading, and avoiding eye-contact with the Orlesians. Lady Vivienne had instructed Trevelyan to limit her socialization with the nobility and she knew why--if word spread the Herald was a gap-toothed hayseed with a backwater accent it would damage the Inquisition’s prospects in Orlais. Vivienne was right, of course, and Trevelyan had never cared much for Orlesians to begin with, but the situation annoyed her all the same.

On arrival the Inquisition’s party was recognized immediately. An Orlesian in a typically-ostentatious gold mask approached and introduced himself as Esmeral Abernache. “A pleasure to finally meet you, cousin,” he said, with a short, fluid bow.

Abernache was a distant cousin of Trevelyan’s and the leader of the noble coalition sent to pressure the templars to assist the Inquisition. He was the only member of her family in attendance, which was a good thing. Trevelyan could well imagine what it would be like to have House Trevelyan descend upon this place. Between her mother and father fanning their faces as they offered veiled critiques of the architecture and staff, to her siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles, all blustering and boasting and drinking and flirting with the templars and challenging the Orlesians to duels… It would have been chaos. Abernache was quiet and predictable by comparison.

Ambassador Montilyet had engaged Abernache to lead the coalition because he was ambitious, eager to influence, and a good source of quality gossip. Reading between the lines, Trevelyan understood he was also the only relative who had responded to Ambassador Montilyet’s inquiries. That had not surprised her, nor had it stung. Even before the letters from home had dwindled and stopped Trevelyan had ceased thinking of her family in emotional terms.

Sizing up her cousin, and looking past the ridiculously ornate gold embroidery covering his puffed-up chest and the absurd carved mask that was all the rage in Val Royeaux, Trevelyan caught a glimpse of what Ambassador Montilyet had seen: determination and purpose. Contrary to his fellows, who viewed their task as an exciting holiday diversion, Abernache intended to prove himself and be of service.

Trevelyan was not supposed to curtsy anymore, being the Herald, so she merely inclined her head to Abernache in response. Lady Vivienne gave her a subtle, approving nod. Trevelyan’s heart swelled and she was dismayed by it. She both ached for and resented the the enchanter’s approval. She had not had any mentors at the Circle and now that she was the Herald she found herself engaging in subconscious competition with all the mages around her, especially those who came from Circles. She wished she could have a normal, healthy relationship with another mage but she was starting to think that wasn’t possible. 

“We are all quite curious how you gained the Lord Seeker’s favor,” Abernache said as they walked up the sloped path to the drawbridge. “He has refused to meet with us until he sees the Inquisition in person.”

Trevelyan was also curious about that. Seeker Lucius apparently changed his opinion of the Inquisition overnight, transforming from public antagonist to welcoming ally. Even Sister Leliana had been puzzled and wary of the Seeker’s shift in attitude. Trevelyan said, “We have an understanding.”

“Between you and me, the Chantry did not take proper advantage of the templars. Perhaps now they will meet their potential.”

“I fully intend to make use of the Order,” Trevelyan said. She immediately thought of Commander Cullen. Her was her Commander, her templar, whether he still considered himself a member of the Order or not. As long as he was safely leashed he would always be a templar. Trevelyan was no longer a forgotten shadow passing a lyrium vial between the bars and hoping they remembered, she had the leash within her grasp now. If talks went well she might soon have her hand on the collar of each templar in Therinfal, just as she held Cullen’s, and she need never fear templars again. The thought warmed her. “Waste not,” she replied. Yes, the templars were truly wasted here. She never waste such a resource. She would ensure they served as they were meant to.

“Well said, cousin,” Abernache replied.

They walked through the throng of Orlesian nobles gathered at the bridge and gates, Vivienne paying respects as needed while Seeker Cassandra and Solas maintained a silent presence at Trevelyan’s side. Trevelyan watched the Iron Lady’s skillful management of the assembled nobles in a detached way. These Orlesians were tourists, minor nobles who wished to feel important and claim they had some say in historic matters. They must be placated, to a point, but they were not nearly as vital to the Inquisition’s efforts as they believed. Trevelyan had been outside the noble ecosystem many years now but it was swiftly coming back to her. 

Trevelyan caught a glimpse of a young man in a ragged hat, he stood out to her precisely because he lacked the flamboyant dress of the others, but when she looked again he was gone. A servant, perhaps? If so, he would be the first she had seen, even though a fortress like this required a small army of staff to maintain it. Curious.

A Knight-Templar briskly crossed the courtyard to meet her, interrupting the lengthy introduction announcement by one of the Orlesians. Ser Barris was handsome and tall, facts Trevelyan tried not to dwell on.

“Commander Cullen told us of the Inquisition’s plans to repair the Veil and close the Breach and we are ready to serve. Lord Seeker Lucius said us he would restore our honor once we gathered our fellows here, and we have done so, but he refused to allow us to march until you arrived.”

Trevelyan frowned. What sort of commander would hole up his troops in a remote fortress when they wished to serve? If meeting her was so important, why had the Lord Seeker required she come all the way out here? Why not meet her in a neutral territory? “You wish to aid the Inquisition, then.”

“Yes, Herald. That’s why I went outside the chain of command. A templar knows her duty, even if she is kept from it. Every Knight here wants to help close the Breach, we stand by ready to march with you, but you must convince the Lord Seeker.”

Ser Barris’ willingness to go outside the chain of command was a matter best dealt with later. For now, he was right--it was unconscionable the Lord Seeker would gather the templars here to wait while the countryside was rife with red templar war parties and demons. Soldiers must be kept busy and productive. Trevelyan had witnessed firsthand what happened when idle soldiers with too much time on their hands were allowed to shore up resentment.

“If you are ready to join us, march Ser Knight,” Trevelyan said. “The Inquisition welcomes you.” It was a test. Right or wrong, Ser Barris and his fellows were bound by orders. Seeker Lucius ranked higher than even a Knight-Commander, should there be one present.

“We cannot,” Ser Barris said, without hesitation. “Our officers follow the Seeker.”

Trevelyan caught Cassandra’s eye. Ser Barris passed the test. These templars would obey orders, even questioning, as the Chantry intended. The Inquisition need only make sure they took orders from the right person.

“Herald, our truth changes by the hour,” Ser Barris said, softly. 

“I understand, Ser Knight,” she said. “More than you can know.” Stay strong, beautiful Knight, she thought. Cullen had been right; the templars here would more than serve if they could be pried out of the Lord Seeker’s grip. Trevelyan had met many different types of templars over the years and if those stationed at Therinfal Redoubt were half the templar Ser Barris was the Inquisition was sitting on a boon.

“Don’t keep us waiting, Knight,” Abernache said. He’d grown impatient, being left out of the promised political maneuvering and machinations up to this point. “This is the work of those born to it.”

In the Ostwick Tower Trevelyan’s nobility had been a source of mockery amongst the other Circle mages, who only acknowledged the Circle’s internal hierarchy, but most of the templars had granted her some respect for it. She was hardly surprised when Ser Barris bowed his head in subservience and stepped aside to allow entry. A brave, beautiful Knight indeed, but his moral urgency only took him so far, and he was beholden to orders and titles. The templars were a powerful tool, they simply needed a proper hand to guide them. After years of observing them, and thinking about how she would better handle their service, Trevelyan had her chance. 

“You are ready to lead them,” Solas said quietly, at her side.

“I’ve observed them long enough,” Trevelyan said. 

Solas nodded. “And they can be trusted?”

“All that matters is that they can be controlled,” Trevelyan said.

Cassandra looked at her, mildly surprised, but Solas nodded again. “I think Seeker Cassandra will find you are full of surprises,” he said.

Trevelyan didn’t answer. They followed Ser Barris into a courtyard with three standard flags notched at the lowest point. It was a curious display.

“The Lord Seeker has asked you raise the standards,” Ser Barris said. “The Order, the Maker, and the people. He wishes to see the order in which you honor them. There is no correct answer.” 

Then it was a personality test of sorts. If the Lord Seeker’s assistance was not contingent on her answer, he wanted insight. There was something very familiar about all this. She’d been tested this way before in the Fade. Not with flags, but with illusions and trickery. What did she value most? Who would she try to protect first? Who would she lift up at the expense of another? Demons always wanted to know where best to stick the knife. The only way to win these games was not to play.

“If the Lord Seeker questions my values, he may ask me directly,” Trevelyan said. “That is why I’m here.”

Ser Barris lowered his voice. “Herald, he has changed everything because of you. Not the Inquisition--you personally. He’s obsessed with you. I don’t know why.”

Trevelyan wet her lip, her her heart quickening. This was a warning. Seeker Cassandra would protect her, of course, but… Ser Barris was right, something was wrong here.

“Must we dally?” Abernache asked. Ever eager, her cousin. He apparently had no real experience with templars and had no idea what ground he trod on. He had not noticed how desperate Ser Barris was, to say nothing of the fact they’d seen no other officers yet. “Let us make history.”

“Yes,” Trevelyan said. To Barris, she said, “Lead on, ser.”

They followed Barris into the main chamber, high-vaulted and arched as though it were a Chantry sanctuary. Trevelyan glanced about, for there was no sign of the Lord Seeker. There was something strange about the templars and officers waiting for them. Beside her, Seeker Cassandra’s hand went to her hilt.

“Knight-Captain Devan?” Ser Barris asked, also confused. “Where is the Lord Seeker?”

Knight-Captain Devan smiled down at her. “You are the Herald? So you’re the one who has caused all this fuss. What a little mage, indeed.” There was a flicker of something in his eyes. Something unnatural, and the shade of his irises… he had a central heterochromia that appeared almost red.

At once, Trevelyan was back in the Tower, Ser Gavin staring down at her, mumbling, his eyes wild. “Little mage… were you pretending to be innocent all along? Are you a blood mage like all the others?” Even now she could recall perfectly the red of Ser Gavin’s eyes. His eyes were brown. Why had they seemed red?

“It’s a trap!” Trevelyan shrieked, ducking behind Cassandra. Solas and Vivienne closed ranks as one, flanking her sides. Enchanted swords materialized in the air, one hovering defensively at Trevelyan’s breast and another at her back. As Knight Enchanters went, Lady Vivienne was par excellence.

It was a trick. Therinfal Redoubt had been taken over by red templars. There had been no way to tell until they were too close and now it was far too late.

“Purge the disloyal knights!” Knight-Captain Devan roared. “There can be no questioning!”

Not the Herald--the knights. Indeed, the red templars seemed to have no intention of harming her. They turned upon their fellows like wild animals instead. Trevelyan screamed as an arrow narrowly missed striking Ser Barris in the throat. He drew his sword as the two templars beside him fell. 

“Trevelyan, the door!” Cassandra yelled, running one of the red templars through. Trevelyan scrambled to obey and Abernache scrambled with her, moving as quickly as they could across the cold stone floor. As Trevelyan’s fingers closed around the knocker it was torn outward from her grasp and there stood the Lord Seeker. The swords defending Trevelyan were violently shattered and cast aside.

“Herald!” Vivienne called, and new swords began to form in the air, but not quickly enough.

“At last,” the Lord Seeker said, grabbing Trevelyan by the front of her uniform.

“No!” Abernache yelled, grabbing for her arm. “You beast, unhand my cousin this--!” But he was too late. There was a crackling swirl of magic and Trevelyan was swallowed up.

Trevelyan blinked, adjusting. Around her the greenish hues of the Fade oscillated and swirled. Trevelyan rose to her feet. She was in her old robes, comfortably ragged, lined on the inside with pockets, and in each something useful, something precious, or something beautiful resided. She took a deep breath, embracing the musk and cold.

It took her a moment to realize she could not see the Black City. Was this truly the Fade? The Seeker should not have been able to pull her into the Beyond while she was awake. Of course, he obviously wasn’t the Lord Seeker anymore. Well, whatever he was, she wouldn’t have to find him. He would find her.

Trevelyan had always been at ease in the Fade, even as an apprentice. She welcomed the dreams her peers dreaded and considered them a respite from the daily realities of the Ostwick Circle. Though the situation was dire, she found herself in no hurry to return to the raging battle on the other side, where she was a hindrance at best and a target at worst. 

She walked through the greenish haze, tall grasses and weeds brushing her robes. The horizon was murky and dark, save the glow of the occasional cluster of red lyrium crystals. She largely ignored the pantomimes intended to distract her, pausing only once to observe her own corpse being immolated on a pyre. She waded through water that did not dampen her clothes, struggling to her feet on a muddy bank that left no smears, and wound her way through a courtyard of tall stone pillars.

"Tell me what you think," the demon said, behind her. Finally. Trevelyan turned slowly and met Leliana's eyes, hooded beneath her cowl. The spymaster's intelligence and observant nature were not reflected in those hooded eyes, only greed. The demon wore Leliana like a clumsy suit. It was nothing like her demon, nowhere near as observant or cunning. Trevelyan didn't make a habit of smiling, but this time she gave in to the impulse.

"Oh, I could help you with that smile," the demon said, tsking.

"You reckon so?" Trevelyan asked. She made no pretenses here, did nothing to cover her face or accent. The things that encumbered her in the physical world meant little in this place. She kept a respectful distance, but not an overly concerned one. Trevelyan knew how to handle demons. 

The demon tilted its head, Leliana's head, a weirdly puppet-like gesture. "Pretty girl," it said, as a gilded mirror rose from the ground to loom beside them.

Trevelyan glanced at the mirror and lo--she was pretty. Not too pretty, the demon was smarter than that, but pretty enough. Full lips, an aquiline nose, curly tresses. Trevelyan smiled again. The teeth reflected back were white and intact. 

"Now all you need is a pretty someone to go with that pretty face," the demon said. "I know just the someone."

In the corner of her eye she could see the demon changing, growing slightly shorter, tendrils fashioning a heavy surcoat and armor to replace the leather and light mail. Demons were not so different from people, for all their centuries of existence and strange knowledge. They always went for the low-hanging fruit. The demon knew she was a Circle Mage, and it knew Cullen was the Commander of Inquisition forces, and it made a few logical leaps. It still didn’t know her, and there was no reason to be overly concerned.

“I’m not interested,” she said.

"Liar," the demon said.

"You don't know me."

"I will know you," the demon said, now in a soft alto, capable of song.

She should walk past. The demon was trying to learn about her, break down her mental defenses. Nevertheless, she stood firm, staring into the swirling depths of the tarnished mirror, her eyes roving the changes made to her features. If she’d looked more like this… would it have made a difference? It was tempting to think her life would have been better if she was pretty, but the Circle was far more complicated than that. 

She saw Cullen's reflection before she felt his breath tickle the back of her neck.

"Tell me,” Cullen said. “What do you see?" He put his hand on her shoulder. She instinctively leaned back against his palm and found it was as solid as she'd imagined.

"A dog on a leash," Trevelyan said. As soon as the words were out she realized she’d made a grave mistake. This was not her demon; she could not, should not, be so frank, but it was too late. A leash materialized in her hand. Trevelyan did not react, even as her heartbeat quickened. 

“Look at me,” Cullen said.

She kept her eyes on the mirror and her fake reflection, even as her fingers tightened around the leash. It was heavy leather, intricately stamped with Chantry sunbursts. In spite of its weight it was strangely supple and smooth in her palm.

“Tell me what you feel,” Cullen whispered. “I want to serve. Let me serve.”

He was getting down on his knees. Trevelyan swallowed. She should walk away, but she felt rooted to the spot. Just don’t look. Don’t look, keep it together. He rested his face against her thigh and her will broke. She couldn’t help it. She looked.

The Commander of the Inquisition gazed up at her, his cheek resting against her robed thigh, a leather collar gilded with lyrium snug around his neck. So lost, so in need of direction.

“Ah, I can see it now. You want to use me,” he breathed, sliding a gloved hand up her leg.

She tore her eyes away. Behind the mirror stretched an army of templars on bended knee. 

“They need direction,” Cullen said. “And you, a Circle Mage, under the Order’s heel for so long… Is this what you want? To line the backbone of the Inquisition with the Order’s might? To control the templars who dominated your life for so many years?” He sighed, nuzzling her thigh. “What happens to a Circle Mage like you when the towers fall? How you must despise the rebel mages.”

Trevelyan’s mouth was dry. She had grossly underestimated this thing, whatever it was. She’d grown too comfortable with her own demon, with the winding conversations she could end at will by waking up. She could not leave this place at will and this thing was far cagier than she’d given it credit.

There was a second realization buried under all this, that would warrant further examination later, should she survive: her demon had been playing nice. At best, it had been teaching her to underestimate its own kind. At worst even it found her undesireable, not worth real effort. Regardless, she hadn’t respected the creatures of the Fade as she ought, and she might soon pay the price.

Trevelyan released a slow, shaking breath, and focused. It was not a desire demon. Nor rage, nor sloth. Very likely she faced Envy. It had impersonated the the Lord Seeker, which meant it likely intended to impersonate her. It only needed to learn enough about her to be convincing. She wore many faces; most mages did. The demon understood this. It would not attack until it was satisfied it knew her well enough to impersonate her unquestioned.

“Herald of Andraste,” Cullen murmured, against her leg. “The most powerful mage in Thedas. The savior of all. Guide me. Tell me what you think, tell me what you desire.” His gloved hand slid along the inside of her leg.

Suddenly the boy in the hat stood before her, obstructing her view of the mirror and the templar army. “Don't answer, don't listen," the boy said. “You have to get away!”

Trevelyan didn't move. She could feel Cullen's gloved hand parting her robes, his breath warm and irresistible through the worn fabric. Being wanted, even like this, was a potent drug.

"Remember what they said, she’d be a waste of a brand, she wouldn’t even enchant right,” the boy said, his words quick and stumbling. “Trevelyan can wander the halls at night and no one will care, no one would ever take liberties, no one would ever want her--not even a nothing, a nobody, a shadow--no one would bother looking at her let alone--"

Trevelyan hurled the leash away, and as its length arced out into the air Cullen collapsed, decapitated, his head and body melting into the ground. She stood with her fists clenched and trembling at her sides. Her fingernails had cut half-moons into her palms where she’d held the leash. She stared over the boy's shoulder into the mirror, where her true reflection stared back unblinking. The templar army was gone, the Fade field barren and empty.

"I'm sorry," the boy said. "I didn't want to hurt you, but you were staying, listening, and you can't, you have to go--"

Trevelyan charged ahead. The boy vanished, the mirror dissipated like smoke. Trevelyan kept running, the shifting landscape of the Fade taking form ahead of her.

She was a fool. She’d watched the demon set the hook and bait it, and then she’d opened her mouth to take a bite. How stupid could she be? It was all that time spent with her demon, all those conversations, that had desensitized her to the dangers. There was something different about this place, this Fade. Her presence here was unnatural and the normal rules--if the Fade could be said to have rules--did not apply. She could not afford to make any more mistakes. 

A voice echoed through the endless corridors. “You raised no standards. Does that mean you care for nothing? Perhaps you simply hold your standards close. You’re too at ease here.”

Gouts of green flame erupted from the massive pillars lining the path, but Trevelyan pressed on. Where she would have quavered in the real world she had no fear here--she had long grown accustomed to the strangeness of dreams.

“Do you truly want the templar, or do you simply want the templar to want you? Would he be the first? Trevelyan can wander the halls at night… Yes… I am understanding you.”

“A nothing, a nobody, a shadow,” the boy said, appearing on the path ahead. “Envy is what you are, and you are nothing.”

“Who are you?” the demon demanded. “Get out! This is my place!”

“I want to help,” the boy said. “I’m Cole.” He peered at her, eyes wide under his wide-brimmed hat. “Follow me.”

Trevelyan went with him, down a row of prison cells into a small chamber. 

“I want to help,” Cole said again. He was sitting on the ceiling. 

Trevelyan stopped. “You have a funny way of showin’ it,” she said. He was a spirit of some sort but his presence here meant he was not an ordinary spirit, for she was increasingly certain this was not the true Fade.

“You’re frozen,” Cole said. “Envy wants to wear your face. It’s in your head.”

_That would be a first_, Trevelyan thought dryly, but it explained the incongruities of this place. She was not in the Fade, she was being held prisoner in her own mind. If Envy was in her mind then this spirit, Cole, was in her mind as well, and appeared to be able to enter and leave at will. Useful, but dangerous. She filed the information away for later and asked, “How do I get out?”

Cole sighed. “I was hoping you’d know. It’s your head.”

Trevelyan stepped into the hallway and looked at the horizon. Unlike Thedas the Fade did not have a curvature and one could see indefinitely in any direction. As a result the Black City was always visible. Here an ever-present fog obscured the way forward. Envy was using the fog to mask the boundaries of the illusion. It drew on what it knew to create her immediate surroundings and the specters she encountered but it could not replicate the Black City on the horizon because its resources were finite. Thus, the farther she traveled the more magical power Envy would have to expend to maintain the illusion. Eventually, it would no longer be able to hold her and she’d return to consciousness. 

The Envy demon, perhaps sensing her awareness, changed the way forward. Ostwick Tower loomed large.

“I have to go back,” she said.

“Yes,” Cole said. “I’m sorry. But--” He appeared at her side. “Envy doesn’t know--it only pretends to know, until you tell it.”

The great truism of spirits. They claimed to know the future, but peddled in conjecture. Even they did not know what would happen. Envy could not properly invade her mind and know her thoughts, as Cole did. That was why it constantly fished for information.

“You need to keep your mouth shut,” she said.

Cole stared at her, wide-eyed, silent.

“Good,” she said. 

Down the hall she saw Commander Cullen in a cell. His face was emaciated, raw, but the anger in his eyes burned bright. “You keep me here for questioning her… I was silent far too long, I let her turn the Inquisition into a butcher’s pit. I should have--”

Envy was showing her what would happen should she fail to escape. Trevelyan’s heart ached. Poor Cullen. Envy was probably right about him. He was too much the templar, too well-trained, too accustomed to obedience. He was not a true believer in the way that Cassandra was--Trevelyan would never forget his small, knowing smile when he asked what she thought of her bold new title--but he would not resist the Herald’s authority until it was too late. Envy would wield him much as the Chantry had.

In the next cell, Ambassador Josephine paced, wringing her hands, anxiously asking what she’d done wrong, how she’d displeased the Herald. Poor Josephine. She would be among the first to realize something was wrong, but it would still be too late.

Sister Nightingale’s cell was empty. She would not be taken prisoner, of course. She would be killed, some dagger in the back, if she did not escape. 

Trevelyan walked through the large arches of Ostwick Tower. The demon had studied well; the facsimile was good. But as she passed through throngs of jeering mages and templars, all pantomiming the old stereotypes, she noted a conspicuous absence.

No tranquil. Not a one. Envy considered them beneath notice. It did not know Trevelyan had been informally relegated to custodial duty, a fact which would have never been recorded in any official log because of her noble status. It did not know the tranquil were her only friends, it knew nothing of their long conversations on magic and politics and science. It knew nothing of the night she held Matthais’ hand, asking him, “Do you love me?” and how she wept silently when he said yes because tranquil could lie, if logic dictated they do such, and since they had no inflection it was impossible to tell. He was her dearest friend, she was in love with him, but even she could not accept his word because even she considered him intrinsically broken and incapable of true feeling.

The demon showed her many scenes. Scenes in which she scrabbled for the favor of her betters--first the mages, then the templars. Scenes in which she debased herself. Scenes in which she was abused or beaten. In one, Ser Gavin held her to the ground, forced her legs apart--

But that had never happened, never would have happened, and she did not react to her effigy’s pleas or cries of pain. She pushed open the door to the First Enchanter’s office and there was light, abundant, and she was outside.

“--Instant!” Abernache was yelling, as Trevelyan was hurled backwards into his arms. He cushioned her fall admirably but they both hit the ground hard, the wind knocked from each. 

Trevelyan was staring at herself. The demon had a new face. They both started and scrambled away from each other. 

“Seeker Lucius has been replaced by an envy demon!” the demon said, breathlessly. “Now it’s trying to impersonate me!”

Trevelyan froze. Beside her, Abernache was backing away. 

“What… is this?” he whispered.

Trevelyan had always made a point of avoiding her reflection and had seen it very little outside the tiny hand mirror she kept in one of her robe pockets. She was not as familiar with her own face as one might expect, but gazing upon the demon, she understood they were twins. 

In spite of everything she found herself studying her own image. The creature before her was no beauty, not by any standard, but it was not nearly so ugly as the reflection she recalled from her youth. The teeth were crooked and several were missing, the chin was weak, the button nose was too small and flat to be worthy of a noble face, but none of these traits were so garish as she remembered. And the eyes…

“It led the templars to ruin and now it’s trying to take over the Inquisition,” the demon said. “It wants to use us.”

“How long do you think you can go without closing a rift?” Trevelyan asked it. There was no way the demon could replicate the anchor.

Sparks of green crawled over the demon’s gloved hand. “Don’t listen to it,” it said. “It’s a trick!”

Cassandra was looking back and forth between the two, watching. They were all watching. No one moved.

The sparks were some form of magic that looked nearly identical to the anchor, but surely the demon did not possess true rift magic. If she could demonstrate she possessed the anchor she could settle the matter. Trevelyan raised her hand, drawing from the Fade, feeling the familiar tearing sensation in her palm. But the demon understood what she was doing, and meant to have her struck down before she could fully demonstrate.

“It’s a trap, don’t let it!” the demon shrieked, running behind Abernache.

Cassandra immediately leveled her sword at it. “That’s the demon,” she boomed. “Kill it!”

Abernache scrambled out of the way as magical swords materialized around the fake Trevelyan. Vivienne’s magical swords lanced into the the Envy demon and it screamed, an ear-piercing sound, before molting into a sinewy, pale creature with a gaping mouth. It scuttled back on white, spindly legs, hissed, and abruptly changed again, this time taking Ser Barris’ form.

“Sweet Andraste!” Ser Barris cried, recoiling but standing his ground. 

The demon stumbled and resumed its true form and screamed again, its jaws lifting, pale lips peeling back to reveal rows of teeth. The templars reacted as expected, drawing their swords with exclamations, and fell upon it. The Envy demon squealed, briefly assuming Trevelyan’s form once more, but the squalling, hissing mage on the ground seemed absurdly far removed from her now, much as Envy’s impersonation of Leliana had been. Trevelyan watched as swords pierced her body, observed her own face contorted into a snarl as her throat was slit wide open and black blood pooled onto the floor. It continued thrashing and seizing until it finally melted away, leaving nothing but ichor and stains on the stones.

The fight was far from over. Therinfal was overrun with red templars and Cassandra and Ser Barris led a war party to investigate and secure the fortress. Solas stayed with Trevelyan in the main sanctuary, where she was content to watch her cousin rant and rave about the state of affairs. At one point Abernache breathlessly turned to Trevelyan and said, “Have they no respect for bloodlines? We are nobility!” before resuming his tirade.

“How long were you gone?” Solas asked, when Abernache had worked his way to the opposite side of the hall.

“It felt like hours,” Trevelyan said. “But it could have only been a moment.”

“What did you see?”

“It showed me what the world would be like if it replaced me and took control of the Inquisition.”

“Ah,” he said.

“It would not have gotten past you,” she said. “And probably not the Commander, either.”

“Are you so certain? It fooled the Seekers, the templars, and members of the Chantry. You have not allowed many people in the Inquisition to truly know you.”

“Would you have called it out, Solas?” Trevelyan asked abruptly, because she had little doubt Solas of all people would have seen through Envy’s charade. Perhaps she gave Cullen too much credit, but Solas… one could never give Solas too much credit.

Solas hesitated. “Of course,” he said, but he’d been caught off-guard by the question, and Trevelyan was not so sure he meant it.

“You could test it, in front of everyone,” she said. “It could not close a rift.”

“While the magic you possess is rare, it is not unique,” he said. “It is possible the demon did possess some form of rift magic.”

“You mean other mages can control rifts?”

“Does that upset you?”

It did, actually. She did not particularly relish being in possession of magic that was slowly killing her, but at least her ability to control the rifts made her special, gave her some authority. “Well, where are they?”

“I suspect they have chosen not to reveal themselves,” he said. “There is a great deal of political instability at the moment. It is a dangerous profession.”

A thought occurred to her. “Do you think the Wardens have a rift mage?” she asked. “They say mage Wardens command all kinds of rare magic.”

Solas’ expression turned slightly grim. “I believe the Wardens would very much like to have a rift mage,” he said.

Trevelyan intuited his meaning and scooted a little closer. All the more reason to be wary of Hawke. She was not yet convinced the Champion was blameless for the destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry, nor had Hawke properly explained her allegiance to the Wardens. How was it she had not been forced to join? What if she owed them something? What if she was a spy?

When the war party returned to the sanctuary their mood was subdued. Knight-Captain Denam had been captured alive but all the other templar officers were addicted to red lyrium and fought to the death. They’d found templars unwillingly infected as well. The number of templars they would be able to recruit from Therinfal fit inside the narrow sanctuary. It was a far cry from the legions of shining knights the Envy demon had tempted her with, and Trevelyan knew their number was not enough to adequately reinforce reality around the Breach so it could be safely closed. Perhaps her disappointment showed. Cassandra sat heavily beside her, drinking from a waterskin. She wiped the sweat from her brow and said, “It will be all right, Trevelyan. Some were saved, at least, and some were killed mercifully before their condition could worsen.”

That hadn’t quite been Trevelyan’s concern, but she nodded. “You saw me,” Trevelyan said, looking up at her. “You saw through the demon’s lies.”

“Of course, Trevelyan,” she said. “It used Abernache as a shield. It was a coward. As I’ve said before, you are no--”

Trevelyan threw her arms around her. 

Cassandra shifted awkwardly, the waterskin still in hand, but managed to pat her on the back. “You did well, Trevelyan. I knew you would.”

Trevelyan allowed herself to have this much. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favorite chapters. I wish they were all this fun to write.


	8. On the Shores of Lake Calenhad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Varric travel to Redcliffe to make contact with the rebel mages. Hawke has not been forthcoming about her sickness and reminisces about the past.

Hawke expertly navigated the mud and gravel underfoot as she and Varric made their way down a steep incline. The sun crested the long expanse of conifers stretching down the mountainside, casting a pretty glow along the treeline. She’d spent much of the journey admiring the scenery but Varric, ever the begrudging traveler, kept his eyes on the ground, more focused on his footing than the sights. He stumbled and she caught his arm.

“Thanks,” he said, slightly out of breath.

“It’s the sedentary life you lead,” she said.

“I wish,” he muttered, stopping to take a drink from his flask. “Between Cassandra and Trevelyan I’ve been dragged all over this damn mountain.” He offered her water and she shook her head.

Most of the symptoms of red lyrium poisoning were obvious: dull aches and pains, sleeplessness, irritability, mood swings, the song. Other symptoms might be overlooked for a time, but Hawke had always been keenly attuned to her body as a mage and she knew she had more strength and stamina than she ought. Her father taught her all energy had to come from somewhere; it did not simply materialize out of thin air. She’d concluded her heightened physical abilities were the result of the red lyrium consuming her body. This time the lyrium was eating her, rather than the other way around. She smiled grimly at that.

“You’re not even winded,” he said. “How do you do it?”

“I spent my youth mastering the fine art of wallowing in Fereldan mudholes.”

He sighed. “The older we get the worse shape I’m in and the better shape you’re in. At this rate you’ll be carrying me over your shoulder in a few years.”

“They say Amells age like a Sun Blond Vint,” she replied. “We get stronger and more acerbic over time.”

Varric chuckled, which warmed her heart. It was one of the few things that did these days. “That’s the spirit,” he said, slapping her on the back.

“A vintage best tasted while young…” she continued.

“All right, all right,” he said, shaking his head, still chuckling. “You’ve distracted me from my grievances. You don’t have to run it into the ground and make it weird.”

They continued their descent. Hawke subtly slowed her pace and shared a bit of gossip she’d picked up in Crestwood and Varric was in better humor when they reached the bottom of the mountain.

There was a small fishing village along the western shore of Lake Calenhad. An Inquisition banner was staked near the entrance, the cloth fluttering in the breeze. At the top was an effigy of the Herald of Andraste, cast tall and elegant before the great eye of the Inquisition. The effigy bore no resemblance to the clever, cautious little mage in disheveled robes who had grilled Hawke in a dark corner of the Chantry.

“Can you save them?” Trevelyan asked.

With no information on the area or situation, and no idea of the resources at her disposal, Hawke had given the only appropriate answer: “Of course, your Worship. I’ll have the mages knocking on your door before the week is out.”

“And the Tranquil?” Trevelyan pressed.

The rebel mages would not have brought Tranquil with them to the Hinterlands. The Tranquil would have been a burden in the countryside, having no meaningful skills and lacking autonomy. But Hawke merely smiled and said, “Naturally, your Worship. I believe that goes without saying.”

Hawke watched the banner flap, the metal-edged tassels clinking softly in the wind. There were no such effigies of herself, thankfully. She was supposed to pose for a portrait as Viscount but she kept dodging the appointments. She’d had no desire to see a sanitized version of herself mounted in the gallery at the Keep.

“Roland!” Varric called, waving to a scout. The scout waved back. Varric had sent a bird the day before, so they were expected. After a brief introduction the scout pointed them to the docks.

There were five long docks, but only two small fishing boats were currently moored. A few fishermen sat idle in the shade, playing cards or smoking. Presumably they would be on the water if not for the Inquisition requisitioning their vessels. Hawke left Varric to his gossip and crossed to the dock. As she did so one of the fishermen stood, tucking several leaves of elfroot into her cheek, and walked down ahead of her to prepare the first boat.

The breeze was strong, favorable for sailing. The fisherman squatted next to the boat and began unwinding the dock line. “I hope they’re paying you more than elfroot,” Hawke said, when she was in hearing.

The fisherman spit into the water and said, “So you’re the one commandeering my boat. You know Lake Calenhad?”

“Yes, I grew up in Lothering,” Hawke said.

“Ah,” the fisherman said, softening a bit. “Shame about that one. Heard the land went to poison.”

“It was deemed unlivable,” Hawke said, crouching beside her to help.

The mention of Lothering stirred long-buried memories that swiftly bubbled to the surface, memories of turning the dark soil with meticulously-tuned Force magic and spreading ice crystals to melt with the rising sun. Gone were the days farmers like her father would taste the soil and tend patches of roots and squash and corn. Gone were the days little cursed apostates would laugh and play among the stalks or catch frogs in the winding creek that bordered the farm. It was all long gone now, the ground soured by the darkspawn’s taint. “Blighted beyond hope,” her mother had said, reading Elder Miriam’s letter aloud.

“Some still won’t fish out there,” the fisherman said. “Say you’ll catch a curse.”

“Does Blight infect the water?” Hawke asked.

The fisherman grunted. "Blight infects everything. Gets into the soil, the fish and plants, even the insects, down to the tiniest ones you can't see.”

“If you can’t see them, how do you know they’re there?” Hawke asked, curious.

“Warden came through here a few years back, had a scope that would show you the tiniest creatures in the water. She said the Blight lingers long after the Darkspawn are gone, passed down through the environment. The lake looks normal, but it’s been changed in ways we can’t see. Even now you hear stories of strange things being pulled up in the nets.”

“What about you?” Hawke asked. “Ever pull anything interesting?”

The fisherman glanced over her shoulder, then lowered her voice and said, "Well, I did pull King Cailan's dick once." Hawke laughed and the fisherman laughed too and said, "No, I never dredged up any horrors, mostly sick fish. Some around here say they pulled Darkspawn corpses that weren't quite dead, or worse." The fisherman looked over at the Inquisition tent where Varric and Roland were talking. "Didn’t know they had dwarves. How long have you been with them?" she asked, still working the knot.

"A few months. They promised me decent gruel but I have yet to see it."

The fisherman shook her head, still preoccupied with a knot. "These independent armies are all the same. They make promises, might even keep a few, then they get absorbed or wiped out. Best to just go along, if the demands are reasonable enough."

“What did they promise you?” Hawke asked.

"A templar. I'll believe it when I see her."

"Robe trouble?" The word slipped off Hawke's tongue in a casual, effortless way that put mundanes at ease.

"Maker, when are robes not trouble? They say a pack of those rebels took over the castle and invited a bunch of foreigners into Ferelden to loot and plunder," the fisherman said. She spit a bit of elfroot juice and said, "Arl's a fool. Never trust a robe. I’ll rest easier when we’ve got a templar to protect the village."

Trevelyan believed the mages were still in the Hinterlands. It seemed the situation had changed. "We're not going that far," Hawke said. "We’re disembarking west to go to the Crossroads." Small, easy lies had saved her life more than once, and sprinkling them about had become second nature to her.

"Well, you've got the wind for it," the fisherman said.

“Have you heard anything about red crystals?” Hawke asked. “There are stories going around.”

“I did hear about red rocks that generate heat,” the fisherman said. “Fellow who came through here said rocks sang to him, but he was obviously touched, had some kind of curse. We chased him away so he wouldn’t spread it in the village. There’s a lot of strange magic going around now that the Circles are broken.”

When the boat was prepped the fisherman retreated to the shade to chew her elfroot in peace and Hawke surveyed the lake from the end of the dock. Visibility was low but the water was relatively calm, quite different from the choppy ocean surf in Kirkwall. She observed the gentle ebb of a forest of waterweed just below the surface. The brownish-green stems reached upward to sunlight, beckoning her memories, taking her back to days spent swimming in the lake when the twins were out of school and she’d finished the farmwork and it was too hot to do anything else. Her memories were vivid; she could see the turtles and frogs and birds they’d terrified as they launched their wiry young bodies into the water, she could hear Bethany’s protests, You’re cheating, you’re cheating! as Hawke and Carver gave themselves a little Force boost to gain more distance.

Poor Bethany, surrounded by magic but unable to use it herself. It’s not fair! her little sister had cried. Not fair! I want to be a mage too! I want magic! And mother had slapped her for it. Never say that cursed word where someone might hear you and report it to the templars. Never say mage. Never say magic. Never say want.

Hawke returned to shore to wait, helping herself to a bit of jerky from her pack. Her appetite was lighter these days but she felt a constant urge to graze. As she chewed she held up a hand to shield her eyes from the sun. Redcliffe Castle stood tall and lonely on the southeastern shore. To the northeast she could see the tip of the Fereldan Circle Tower, Kinloch Hold. The island fortress had not been visible from Lothering, which was situated inland at the edge of the Bannorn, so she’d had little occasion to think of it except when her mother received the occasional letter from her cousin Solona or reproached her for some misdeed.

“They’ll take you away,” her mother would whisper harshly, always angry over some magical mishap or another. “To the Circle, just like your cousin. Is that what you want?”

Hawke, a jester even in youth, merely laughed. “Don’t worry, mother dearest, they’ll never catch me,” she’d insisted, and darted away to prove it. As long as she could run they would never catch her. Run, mage. Run, run, run… But in Kirkwall, with the Gallows towering over the harbor, there was nowhere to run. The threat of the Circle was omnipresent, impossible to ignore. Her family had to learn new strategies.

Hawke took a final bite of dried meat, chewing slowly, and stooped to gather a smooth lake stone. She skipped it across the water. It sank and she picked up another. Blend in. _Skip_. Demonstrate what a good mage you are. _Skip_. Distract, _skip_, appease, _skip_, befriend…

The last hit the water at an imperfect angle, curving to the side, and quickly sank, and Hawke recalled the curve of Commander Cullen Rutherford’s rather fetching neck against her lips. She smiled. Her mother would have absolutely shit herself over that one. She hadn’t even been a Viscount five minutes and she was already fondling the Knight-Commander…

“Whatever that grin is about, keep it to yourself,” Varric said, joining her on the bank. No worries there. Cullen valued his privacy; she would take memories of their intimacy to her grave. “Roland says they’ve heard rumors of mages at the castle.”

Hawke nodded. She did not know if a group of mage refugees could overpower the Arl’s guards. Trained battlemages, however… “You said Venatori were in the Hinterlands. They may have taken advantage of the situation.”

The pair walked down the dock, her footfalls loud in contrast to his lighter ones. Varric settled awkwardly into the boat as Hawke untied the last of the moorings and pushed off the dock. A few slow strokes of the paddle, a loosening of the simple sail, and they were off at a steady, unhurried clip.

Varric was always fussy when forced to write in less than optimal conditions, especially when he could not use ink, but he anchored the breeze-blown parchment with his forearm and in no time the worn charcoal was diligently scratching across the page. Hawke leaned back, a hand on the tiller, and enjoyed the wind in her hair. The breeze cooled the increasing warmth under her skin, but did nothing to quell the restless energy coiled within her. It was too early to be sure but it seemed the red lyrium’s growth was affected by temperature. Its progress appeared to slow at Haven but now that she was in a more temperate zone the relentless internal heat was building again. Her knee sang softly, but the melody was lost between the breeze and the lap of the water against the sides of the boat.

She watched Varric cast his magic spells, a trail of arcane runes left in the wake of his instrument. She’d always marveled at how easily writing came to him. Perhaps it was because they were on a boat on Lake Calenhad, the water cloudy with so many memories, that she heard long-forgotten voices from the back of Lothering Chantry, snatches of conversation between mother and Brother Harold caught by anxious young ears.

_…Cannot devote extra time… disruptive… holding the other children back… simple, better suited to labor…_

Hawke was never sure who her mother was angrier with, Brother Harold or her, but she was secretly relieved that she would never return to the schoolhouse or endure the rap of the pointer against the back of her hands when she failed to correctly chart the symbols and order the sounds. When she escaped the schoolroom she also escaped the dark, growing urge deep in her young heart to burn that pointer and the hand that wielded it.

Varric looked up from his writing. “This is nice,” he said.

“You have to trust me, Varric,” she said. “Given a choice, always take the boat.” He was no stranger to water travel, having taken the Kirkwall ferry as often as she, but he’d been resistant to taking a boat instead of hiking the Imperial Highway. She hadn’t told him about the knee, she did not want to worry him, but she suspected the red lyrium would erupt there next and she did not want to put undue strain on the joint.

“Well, I’ll leave the navigation to you, I can’t tell one direction from the next out here,” he said.

“So much for the fabled Dwarven sense of direction.”

“Who needs a sense of direction when you have a map?” he countered.

“Who needs a map when you have the sun? Or are you offended by that too?” she asked, still teasing. Varric knew she was dying but he did not know how quickly the red lyrium was spreading. She was slowly unburdening herself, passing along her secrets one by one, but this was the one secret she could not bear to tell. He would have to find out the hard way.

“You humans and your sky,” he said, with just the right amount of disgust.

Maker, she was going to miss him.

His expression changed subtly. “Hey, are you okay?”

She knew better than the claim wellness, he would become suspicious and embark on an epic quest to wrangle every malady from her. “Just a bit tired,” she said. She had told Varric lies over the years, some big and some small, but this was the first time she’d told a lie that stirred regret. The red lyrium gave her boundless energy, she barely required sleep, but this revelation would frighten him far more than an admission of tiredness, aches or pains. The world was falling apart; better to lie and delay his grief.

“You want me to read you something?” he asked.

“Maybe tonight,” she said.

He nodded and resumed his work. She stretched her leg out, foot resting on the thwart, and allowed her mind to dredge the lake of memory.

* * *

The journey across the lake was peaceful and they disembarked at a small tavern on the outskirts of Redcliffe where they enjoyed a hot meal and a bit of gossip. According to the barkeep a Tevinter magister, a dastardly mage from an evil foreign land filled with wicked and depraved magic, had stolen the castle. He was snatching up Tranquil, who were never seen or heard from again.

“A real honest-to-Maker magister,” Hawke said, taking an undignified slurp of stew. “How could you tell? Was he bathing in blood and fellating demons?”

The barkeep seemed to enjoy this image a bit too much. “Heard about it from that Tranquil,” she said, nodding to the back of the tavern. A man sat alone at a dim corner table, reading a book. The Chantry Sun emblazoned on his forehead stood out in stark relief. “Says he escaped the castle after the magister took over.”

“What happened to the Arl?” Varric asked.

The barkeep shook her head. “Teagan brought this on himself. He let the rebel mages stay in the Hinterlands and they joined with the Venatori and took over the castle. Not sure what he expected, considering how they destroyed their Circles. The mages are staying put for now but folks are nervous, no one wants to go near the place.”

“What’s his name?” Varric asked, nodding to the Tranquil.

“Owain, think he said. Feel bad for the poor sod, he’s looking for work but he won’t find it here.” A traveler at the end of the bar motioned to her and she turned away.

“We should talk to him,” Varric said.

“Ugh,” Hawke said. “You know I hate them. You talk to him.”

Varric turned to face her. “They’re out here all alone now that the Circles are gone. People are killing them, I told you about that.”

“It’s a civil war, Varric. Everyone’s killing everyone. Keep it in perspective.”

Varric took a tentative bite of stew, grimaced slightly, and said, “What makes them unpleasant? The monotone?”

The Tranquil were a walking, talking reminder that magehood could be violently stripped away. The Chantry claimed the Rite of Tranquility was only used on a voluntary basis, but Hawke was all too aware of the abuses that had taken place at the Gallows, where the Rite was used as a punitive measure. Even she thought twice about getting on Knight-Commander Meredith’s bad side after hearing the rumors.

Hawke scraped her bowl clean and looked at Varric’s bowl. She raised her eyebrows. He sighed and slid it toward her. “You’re a dwarf, Varric,” she said.

“Yeah, that’s what they tell me. So?”

“You’re cut off from the Fade,” she said. “You can’t understand what it’s like to lose something you never had.”

“I can understand,” he countered. “I’m a writer, I can understand anything given enough time and enough beer.” He punctuated this by draining the dregs of his mug.

“I’m hungry,” she said. “If you want the information go get it. You don’t need me.”

“I want to understand,” Varric said. “Humor me, will you?”

Hawke took another bite, considering. How could one explain the horror of Tranquility to a dwarf of all people? How might Varric even begin to understand the profound loneliness of being separated from the Fade after a lifetime of connection?

“Imagine a Rite that strips away the ability to read and write,” she said. “When you put your quill to parchment, you cannot draw letters. You know intellectually how the letters are shaped, but when you attempt to write you can only produce meaningless scribbles. If you see the words on the page the symbols are unrecognizable, the meaning lost. Other writers would continue reading and writing, but not you. And one of the side effects is that you don’t care. You don’t care you can’t write anymore. You’re complacent, you accept your fate.

“That’s what Tranquility is. Something you’ve known your entire life, a foundational aspect of your being, is gone and you’re alone because of it. You should care, but you don’t, you can’t, because your capacity for emotion has been ripped away. You’ve been robbed and forced into compliance.” Her lip curled. “It’s an insult.”

Varric’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I get what you’re saying, but do we get to decide what Tranquil should and shouldn’t feel? Solivitus told me he enjoyed his work and his life. Why wouldn’t we take him at his word?”

Varric may have spoken to Formari tradesmen in the Gallows Courtyard but he had not met Karl Thekla, as Hawke had. He had not watched Karl’s face awaken with emotion when he was touched by the Fade, his tranquility temporarily undone. _Please, kill me before I forget the Fade again…_

“I appreciate understanding people is your thing,” she said. “But you can’t understand this and I don’t know how else to explain it to you.”

“Okay,” Varric said, unperturbed. “I’m a dwarf and I don’t get the Fade. That’s fine. Templars can understand it, right? At least academically. I’ve heard you and Cullen discuss magic before.”

“Cullen understands better than most,” she admitted. “He knows what we are capable of and grasps the limitations. But he doesn’t know what it feels like to reach from reality into the Beyond, to draw on that power. He has never experienced magic, he only knows what it is like to inhibit a mage’s access to it.”

“Well, he’s experienced the receiving end, at least. In battle or after being healed. He knows how magic feels in that sense, right?”

Again memories bobbed to the surface, and for a moment she was touching Cullen Rutherford, her hand slick with oil and heat, as he gasped her name against her shoulder. Such memories were making their way back to her with greater frequency these days. She did not know if the vivid resurgence was due to the red lyrium poisoning or simply because she was dying, and it is the plight of the dying to dwell on the past.

The barkeep returned to fill Varric’s mug and Hawke focused on the stew bowl, which was nearly empty. She did not like the thoughtful way her friend was looking at her. Varric got that look when he’d sussed something out he had no business sussing.

“Bloody Void,” Hawke said, scraping the bowl more nosily than was necessary. “Fine, let’s talk to the brand and see what he knows. You can ask him about Rite while we’re at it, he’s the expert and I’m sure he’ll tell you all about how wonderful it is to be violently stripped of one’s magic and forced into free labor for the Chantry.”

The Tranquil put aside his book when they greeted him, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in a facsimile of a smile.

Varric introduced himself and said, “We were sent by the Inquisition to scout the Hinterlands. We’re looking for a guide to the castle. I understand you’re from the area. Looking for work?”

“I am a magical consultant looking for a permanent position outside the Hinterlands,” the Tranquil said.

“Depending on how things go, I could put in a word for you,” Varric said. “The Inquisition is recruiting.”

“I consulted the Arl of Redcliffe on matters of blood magic and demonology. The Inquisition will have a need for my expertise if it truly intends to close the Breach.”

“You doubt our intentions?” Hawke asked. “We’re investigating the area as part of a broader strategy to close the Breach. What more do you need?”

“The Inquisition is a fledgling organization,” the Tranquil said. “It lacks the reputation needed to assess whether it is trustworthy or not. I need some assurances you are who you say you are, and that the Inquisition will accept me into their ranks if I assist you.”

“My word’s not good enough?” Hawke asked.

“I have little faith in words,” Owain said. “I will act as your guide on condition you prove your affiliation with the Inquisition and provide a tangible promise of future employment.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Varric said, gesturing to the bench across from him. “May we?”

“Certainly,” the Tranquil said.

The pair scooted onto the bench. “I’m Varric and this is my associate Lavender.”

“I am Owain,” the Tranquil said.

Varric rummaged through his bag and produced a letter stamped with the Inquisition’s seal. Hawke immediately recognized the handwriting as Cullen’s, though the words writ continued to elude her.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She reflexively assumed she couldn’t read it and there was no point in trying, but some words did stand out to her. She quickly deduced it was a supply order, though the details would have taken her some time to sort out and she would weather the phantom slap of the pointer against the back of her hand, of Brother Harold’s weary mantra, “Wrong, again,” over and over again. Better to leave such things to trusted confidantes like Varric and Seneschal Bran so she could focus on more worthy struggles.

Still, her gaze lingered, her eye naturally drawn to the initials at the bottom, a curt C and R. Here Cullen’s handwriting was terse, but that was not always the case. Sometimes it was flowing, rounded and beautiful, as though he was taking extra time to prepare his thoughts. He’d written her name like that, with a rolling, generous letters. Even after everything went wrong and the letters became brusque memos the cursive of her title remained sweeping, rendered with care. Alas, the flourishes that made his script so beautiful to her eye also made it more difficult to read. Gazing upon his most flourished letters, the first and the last sent to her as Viscount, had been a mixed experience. The letters were clearly so important, imbued with such care and attention, yet so difficult to read. Perhaps if she had tried harder…

Varric was saying, “This is a supply order signed by Commander Cullen Rutherford, the head of the Inquisition’s Armed Forces.”

“So it is,” Owain replied. “I also require a letter of recommendation in the event we are unfortunately separated.”

Varric retrieved parchment and quill, and gently shook the small ink bottle he carried when traveling. He then set about drafting a letter, presumably to the recruitment officer. All the while Hawke studied Owain, who continued to smile blandly at them.

“You drive a decent bargain, Tranquil,” she said.

“You expected I would assist you without any guarantees,” he said.

She had, actually. She’d never known Tranquil to be anything but agreeable. “Aren’t you supposed to do whatever people tell you to do?”

“I endeavor to make the most logical choice,” Owain said. “If the Venatori weren’t actively murdering my people I would have stayed at the castle and sabotaged their efforts from within. Joining the Inquisition is a logical compromise.”

Varric chuckled, still writing. “Bit of a rebel yourself, I see. Well, you’re in good company.”

“Do you think the rebel mages made a logical choice when they rebelled from the Circles?” Hawke asked.

Varric’s quill slowed, but he kept writing.

“Most mages are not like you,” Owain told her. “They require protection and are susceptible to abuse, as the takeover of Castle Redcliffe demonstrates. You are not from the Circle, so you would find it difficult to understand.”

Hawke laughed, dry and humorless. “Perceptive.” She leaned close, her voice low, and said, “How do you know I’m not Venatori, brand? Maybe I’ll take your head myself.”

Owain’s demeanor remained unruffled and calm. “You are slowly dying. If you followed the ways of the Venatori you would be dying much faster, just like the templars.”

“What are you talking about?” Varric asked, in a quiet, guarded voice.

_Clever brand_, Hawke thought. But should she be surprised? She had not known many Tranquil but all had been perceptive, at times even canny. Being separated from their emotional center allowed them to analyze situations, even deeply personal ones, from an intellectual distance without emotional distractions.

“Are you finished?” she asked Varric.

He scribbled out the last few lines and slid the parchment to her. She took the quill and quickly sketched out a small bird and circled it.

“This will earn you protection in Haven, Crestwood, or Denerim,” she said, pushing the letter across the table with two fingers. “It’s good to have options, wouldn’t you agree?”

Owain slid a pale, slender hand across the table to accept it. His were the hands of a scholar. He did not have the callouses of enchantment or bookbinding. The Arl had not put him to work. It was not a leap to assume he had been treated decently at Castle Redcliffe, probably better than the Circle he’d previously lived at.

_What have you been studying, old boy?_ she thought, watching as the Tranquil quickly scanned the letter. _What do you know about red lyrium?_

“This will suffice,” Owain said, securing the letter in a pouch on his belt. “Thank you.”

“Welcome aboard, Owain,” Varric said.

“Yes, yes, we’re all great friends now,” Hawke said, drumming her fingers on the table. “Let’s get to the mayhem. What is the situation at the castle? When can I stab things?”

“Redcliffe castle was taken over by the Venatori,” Owain said. “A magister named Alexius now controls it.”

“So what, Venatori show up and the rebel mages decide they like the cut of Tevinter jib?” Hawke asked.

“Unfortunately, it seems the Venatori infiltrated the rebel mages and took control of the group. After Arl Teagan offered safety in the Hinterlands the Venatori were able to gain access to the castle and took it by force.”

“Infiltrated?” Hawke asked. “Don’t tell me high-and-mighty Vints deigned to dress like barbarians and adopt our coarse accents so they could blend in.”

“It seems a noble facilitated contact, though I do not know who,” Owain said.

“Why hasn’t the Queen sent anyone to reclaim the castle?” Varric asked. “Seems she would object to Venatori squatting in the arling.”

“She’s probably scrounging for templars to handle them,” Hawke said. “And there’s the matter of what to do with them now that the Circles are gone.”

Varric drummed his fingers on the table, then said to Owain, “You escaped the castle. Why haven’t the mages left?”

Owain told them everything: The mages in various conditions of servitude, the magister on his throne and the secret master he served, the sickly son for whom he risked everything. The rebel mages were watched closely by the Venatori stationed there, none permitted to leave unsupervised. They had been promised a place in Tevinter, but the price was ten years of indentured servitude and Alexius intended to force them into military service in the meantime.

“Alexius has made his own little Circle,” Hawke said.

“Poor bastards,” Varric said, jotting notes for his report. “I would expect the templars or a military power to force mages into military service, but for another mage to treat them this way…”

“You’re surprised a Tevinter magister is an enslaving opportunist?” Hawke asked.

At her tone Varric’s quill stopped. “No, but I thought a Vint would at least value mage freedom and autonomy. They’re still mages. He’s treating them like chattle.”

“Did you listen to a word Fenris said?” she asked.

“I listened to a lot of words Fenris said, thank you, and I got an earful from Anders, too. I figured the truth was somewhere in the middle.”

“Why?” Hawke asked, without inflection. “Anders had never even been to Tevinter.”

Varric paused, his quill resting on the parchment. “I don’t know. He just… seemed so certain,” he said.

“Anders was certain about a lot of things,” Hawke said. It was astonishing how, even after all this time, the mere mention of Anders sapped her will. His ghost had fallen a few steps behind during her travels, when her thoughts were consumed by the need for food and shelter, but now that those needs were met he was slowly but surely returning to her side. It was as though Trevelyan had summoned his ghost and with each casual mention his specter became more tangible at her side.

“That’s enough for now. We’ll head out at first light,” she said and stood abruptly, jostling the table. Varric said something she didn’t hear. She retreated to the meager floorspace they’d rented in the tavern loft and she situated herself on a scratchy bedroll stuffed with hay. She curled into a ball.

When she closed her eyes she could see Anders’ manifesto, the pages lined edge to edge stretching as far as the eye could see. The ink shifted on the parchment like a mirage.

_What do you think?_

The manifesto and her opinion of it were so important to him, how could she say she hadn’t read it? So she did what she always did when confronted with overwhelming lines of strange ink. She told him what he wanted to hear.

_It’s brilliant._

“You think I’m right?” he’d asked.

Of course, what was the harm? Who would ever follow Anders? He was not a leader. He was passionate and intelligent, but that was never enough. He was a commoner and an apostate valued for his healing abilities, not his writings. Nothing would ever come of the incomprehensible manifesto that sat on the edge of her desk. And so, with a smile and a clap on the shoulder, she said. “Never doubt. You’re always right, Anders.”

_You’re always right._

The Chantry exploded.

_You’re always right._

For weeks, they dug bodies out of the rubble.

_You’re always right, Anders. You’re always right_.

Hawke did not remember her dreams that night, if she had any. She woke to a gentle ache in her chest and could only guess what transpired in the dark expanse between sleeping and waking. She did not need to dream of Anders to relive their final moments. She would always remember the hilt of the knife against her palm, the force it took to pierce robe and flesh, the expert twist meant to end life with minimal suffering.

_Clearly we have lost._

Trevelyan’s accusations of complicity were salt in a wound that had never scabbed over, in part because Hawke had never been directly confronted over her involvement with Anders. Her friends and associates tiptoed around the issue. Cullen took a careful, measured approach and even Sebastian chose not to broach the the subject directly, speaking only obliquely of his gratitude justice had been done. They meant to spare her pain, but doing so had only allowed her guilt to fester.

Hawke had deescalated many situations throughout her career as a mercenary. She’d done whatever she could to avoid bloodshed and had spared the lives of bandits, mages, templars and soldiers alike. But in the heat of that moment, faced with the enormity of what Anders had done, she’d taken a decisive action that could never be undone. She’d stabbed her friend in the heart. She told herself she’d been overtaken by emotion, that she’d acted in the heat of the moment, but could a blow so precise truly be considered an act of passion?

Hawke felt herself slipping into that old, familiar malaise, the blanket of self-loathing and apathy that had settled over her throughout her life. She lay on her side on the mat, a piece of straw dancing with her breath, oblivious of her surroundings until Varric’s voice intruded on her thoughts.

“You’re awake? I thought you wanted to--oh.” Varric sighed and crouched beside her. “Oh, Hawke,” he said. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

Hawke did not answer, did not even look at him.

After a few moments he sighed again. “Come on, get up. Don’t make me do the thing. It’s depressing and it makes me feel like shit.”

There had been days in Kirkwall when she felt so wretched she wanted to sink into the earth forever. These moods lasted days, even weeks. Her mother, at her wit’s end, would send for Varric and he would come to rouse her. He tried many things to get her out of bed: telling her stories, dumping cold water on her, physically dragging her off the mattress. Finally, he found something that worked: listing everyone she loved and telling her how she would disappoint them. It was an unbearable litany, and it worked. Even on the foulest mornings, when she was most deeply imbued with self-loathing, she would drag herself up out of bed and into the wretched new day. When the omnipresent depression all but smothered her will to live Hawke’s intrinsic fear of failure was the only thing that could motivate her to keep going.

She knew Varric didn’t like doing this, but she knew no other way. At the Keep she’d had Seneschal Bran employ a similar tactic, though Bran had put his own special twist on it. Instead of enumerating those who loved her, he listed all those who wished to use her and might benefit from her inaction.

“I’m not doing it,” Varric said. “We’re going to stay positive. We’re going to meet Trevelyan’s contact and figure out a way into the castle. We’re going to help the mages. We’ll be heroes.”

Hawke did not answer.

Varric sat heavily beside her. “Hawke,” he said. “I love you.”

Hawke focused on the piece of straw moving slowly, in and out, just barely in her line of vision. She waited for him to say the rest, that he would be disappointed in her if she sank into the floor of this tavern forever, that he would stop loving her.

Instead, he said, “You’re my best friend, I will always love you, no matter how much of a pain in the ass you are. Sunshine loves you. Junior loves you. Daisy loves you. Rivaini loves you. Aveline loves you. Bluebell loves you--”

She snorted. “Solona does not love me,” she said.

“Well, okay, maybe not. But I think you’re wearing her down, as you do. She’ll come around.”

“I do not wear people down,” Hawke said.

“That’s the spirit. Let’s see, who else… Oh, yes, Curly. Curly loves--”

She rolled over. “This is ridiculous. You had one job, Varric, unbelievable.”

He held his hands out. “And you’re up. It’s good to be right.”

“No, I’m not, you’re a piss-poor friend and I’m going to lay here until I die,” she told him. But he was right. She was up. The lingering sense of futility and emptiness had been replaced with mild irritation and the rumbling in her belly.

“Now, whether you love Curly is still up for debate at this point in the story, but he did give you a favor--”

Hawke rose from the mat, scattering a bit of straw. “I’m up,” she said.

“Really, a touching gesture, and the fact you literally wear it over your heart is--”

“I’m up!” she repeated, grabbing her bag and chest plate. She tromped down the stairs.

Varric followed her, taking the steps more slowly. “If you don’t give me the details I’ll just have to make something up. You know that.”

“Owain!” she called. A lone patron at the bar looked over, as did Owain, who was reading at a table near the door. “Time to go,” she said.

“Shall I--” he began, but Hawke had already brushed past, giving him little more consideration than a piece of furniture.

The reader may wonder how this individual could be called hero. I pose the question: what is a hero? A shining paragon and exemplar of exceptionalism, a master of their craft, as the dwarves claim? A mage leading rebellions and fomenting upheaval through the land until she is burned by a small, jealous man on the pyre? Or could it be someone who struggles and claws and fights as they drag themselves forward, inch-by-inch, day after day, into this fractured, damaged world in the hope they might be able to make it even slightly less so?

Outside our hero took a few deep breaths, her head tilted to the sky so she might survey the horizon. She sat on a crate, her hand wandering to the letter tucked into her binding and, alongside it, the handkerchief.

This was not the first time she’d carried his handkerchief. Her hand still felt slick with Ander’s blood when Cullen pressed the soft cloth into her palm all those years ago, moments before they parted to quell the rebellion in the Circle.

It was the sort of keepsake a child might have carried. “Don’t tell me you’re getting sentimental about a dirty robe,” she’d said. Her heart was on fire but she’d bottled up all her emotions, it was not safe to feel at that moment. She’d just pledged herself to the Templar Order in a last-ditch effort to keep the Kirkwall Circle from being Annulled. She’d murdered Anders and now she was functionally spitting on him, and all because templar officers like Cullen hadn’t said enough, done enough, hadn’t done bloody anything, until it was far too late.

Cullen flinched at her use of the slur. He hated it when she said such things and she’d always reveled in his discomfort at words he himself would never have to endure. “Please come back to me, Lavender,” he’d said.

Before, he’d always managed professional distance with words like “The Order” and “Us” and “We.” The Order is grateful for your assistance. We thank you for your service. This time, it was me. Come back to me. Please. Please come back to me.

Not Hawke, not Champion, Lavender. When had she ever been Lavender to him? When had she ever been anything more than a useful weapon, handily deployed when his ineffectual templars failed to resolve the problems at their own doorstep?

Even now she felt her resentment soften in the face of that small scrap of cloth. She ran her thumb over the little embroidered knights, each holding a shield--but not a sword, curiously. She’d never noticed that before.

Cullen had been a scared boy when she met him, jumping at shadows, but even then she’d recognized somewhere under all that armor and fear he yearned to do the right thing. And when the worst came to pass, and they were at a breaking point, she’d told him, “You can do this,” and he had. But it was too little too late, in the end.

In Kirkwall she’d agreed to work with him, in part, because he understood what a mage of her caliber was capable of. He was an educated templar, a rarity in a city where the Order was desperate for recruits and lacked the funds to properly train them. He understood magic in a way most of his peers did not and he understood that with each spell, each draw of power, she weakened the Veil and drew demons closer to herself. Of course, understanding magic was one thing, and understanding a mage another. Even now, he still did not--

“Do you require mending?” Owain asked, standing so close she startled.

“Maker’s balls,” Hawke said, putting the handkerchief away. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.” She stretched and surveyed the valley ahead of them. “Where’d you learn to sew? Is that a Tranquil thing?”

“I practiced book-binding in Kinloch Hold for a time. The skill translates to mending cloth.”

“That Circle was overrun,” Hawke said, glancing southerly. The tip of Kinloch Hold was still visible in the far distance.

“Yes, over a decade ago.”

“Bad luck for that lot,” Hawke said. Solona had been close-lipped on the subject, but Hawke had encountered enough maleficarum and abominations in Kirkwall to have an idea how that scenario would play out in an isolated Circle tower on a lake.

“Many perished,” Owain said.

“My cousin, Solona, was a mage there,” Hawke said.

“Yes, I knew Lady Solona Amell,” Owain said. “She was an excellent student, quite accomplished. She convinced the Knight-Commander not to annul the Circle in spite of the templars’ urging.”

If they had not crossed the lake by boat they might not have stopped by this tavern to rest. If they had not visited this tavern, they likely would not have met Owain. Now she found Owain had a link to her cousin. Was Ferelden really so small? Hawke nodded, her mind churning. She’d spotted a break in the canopy accompanied by a trail of smoke and was reconsidering their route. They would have to keep Owain in one piece, at least until they got into the castle. “You met the Wardens, then?”

“Yes. Lady Amell was accompanied by a Warden named Alistair. They were evidently the only Wardens in Ferelden at the time.”

Hawke could hardly believe her ears. Solona had mentioned Alistair was a former Warden who might still be uncompromised. “This Alistair,” she said. “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“Yes.”

Hawke turned to Owain, looking him full in the eyes for the first time. “What are the odds of meeting someone like you all the way out here, on a mission that wasn’t even supposed to be mine?” she asked.

“Good enough, evidently,” Owain said. “Shall I calculate it for you?”

Hawke laughed. She hadn’t realized the Tranquil could tell jokes. The inherent ambiguity of the comment made it even funnier to her. Brilliant, really. “No.” She scanned the horizon again, still thinking of the little knights with shields and no swords, and murmured, “Is it fate or chance?”

“Chance is often mistaken for causality,” Owain said. “However, Thedas is ruled by forces beyond reinforced reality; the Fade has not been quantified. Nothing should be dismissed out of hand.”

He reminded her of Trevelyan in that moment. She’d used the language of science blended with Chantry teachings, an unusual quality in a Circle mage. Varric had told her they would gain influence with Trevelyan by helping the Tranquil, perhaps Trevelyan had been friendly with the Tranquil during her time in the Circle.

“We have a long walk ahead of us,” Hawke said, rising. “Let’s get to know one another. You’re the strange one, you start.”

“What should I speak of?” he asked.

“Your experience. Living in the Circle, or at the castle,” Hawke said. “Anything you like. Don’t hold back, give me the juicy bits first.”

Is it fate or chance, I also wondered, and not for the first time.

I still cannot decide.


	9. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Commander Cullen orients himself after Lavender Hawke's unexpected return and works to process the memories stirred up in lyrium's absence.

Lavender Hawke had a well-documented history of careening into Cullen Rutherford’s path like a magical tornado. He learned to sense her arrival, much as the elders in Honnleath would taste the earth and smell the wind to predict a storm. Their first meeting on a hillside outside Kirkwall, back to back and surrounded by demons, set the tone for their relationship. Again and again they would find themselves back to back, a mage and templar united against hostile forces on all sides. They had an understanding in battle, an undeniable rapport, and when she was at his side he was at his best: his clearest, his most confident, his most honorable.

Why, then, when the field was cleared and the battle won, when all was quiet again, did they have so much difficulty being friends?

Cullen, being reasonably introspective, had a few theories. He had difficulty making friends after his were all murdered at Kinloch Hold. Perhaps his capacity for friendship was broken or he simply no longer knew how. Perhaps the blessed plate etched with the Sword of Mercy that guarded his heart had been too insurmountable a barrier for any mage, even she. Perhaps the circlet of the Viscount raised her to heights that he, as a commoner, was never capable of reaching.

It was different now, the Knight-Commander’s belt and the Viscount’s crown were far behind them in the dust and rubble of Kirkwall. He had a chance again, yet felt powerless to free a hand to grasp it. It was not the first time he’d been granted a second chance. When would the Maker stop giving them to him?

A tornado moves as quickly as it gathers, and thus Lavender Hawke careened away from him once more, out of Haven and into the Hinterlands. It was just as well. He needed to organize his thoughts and come to terms with everything. He had never taken the time to fully process what almost losing her had done to him.

The first four days after the coup had been among his worst. He’d stared down at the bloodspatter in her chambers, the dog in the tunnels, the scrap of nightclothes that would feature in his nightmares for months, and for the next four days he existed in a liminal psychological space. He hit the lyrium hard, dulling his despair and sharpening his mind so he might not contemplate the worst, and tore through the ranks like a madman. There had not been any evidence of magic use at the scene, not a single scorch mark or force impression, and that meant templars were involved.

Hawke was not defenseless without magic but the thought of someone catching her unawares and smiting her, stripping away her ability to channel the Fade and her primary means of defense, made him sick to his stomach. To steal magic from someone like Hawke… the mere thought nauseated him. It was reprehensible. It was a violation.

When he realized Gallows templars were involved he did not feel responsible, only terrified and angry, and as the pieces fell together it became easier to distance himself from blame. The templars involved were traitors to the Order, having defied his orders. They’d become involved in the lyrium smuggling trade and were addicted to red lyrium themselves. Keep’s staff manager had accepted a bribe to delay the shift change and Hawke’s own bodyguards had been dismissed for reasons unknown to them. Additionally, Starkhaven never provided a satisfactory explanation as to why the princess consort’s advisor was conspicuously absent from his room down the hall when the abduction occurred. Lord Mondell had returned to Starkhaven the next day and the Prince refused to supply him for interrogation, despite requests from both Guard-Captain Aveline and Cullen himself.

These details splintered the blame in many directions, and in those days Cullen was still very good at ferreting out mitigating factors and examining all the ways in which any particular tragedy was not his fault. No reasonable person would say that he, as Knight-Commander, could have done anything differently.

On the fourth day Aveline personally delivered the news that Hawke was alive and safe, and when she left his office the lyrium could no longer hold back the glut of emotion. He broke down. He locked the door, sank into the Knight-Commander’s chair, and wept like a child. His sobs were messy, quiet, and body-wracking, the sort he hadn’t experienced since he lay curled up on his cot in the barracks of Kinloch Hold. It was the first time in his personal life the worst had not come to pass. He was tortured, his friends were murdered, his parents were killed in the Blight, Knight-Commander Meredith went mad, but Lavender Hawke was alive.

Every day after that he woke and went about his work with the knowledge that Lavender Hawke was alive somewhere in the world, but the reality did not fully crystallize until he saw her across Haven’s training fields that day, cloaked and filthy, talking to Varric. He would recognize that beautiful broken nose anywhere, but he had not appreciated how intimately he knew her form until that moment. He could have picked her out of a battlefield of a thousand.

Within days she’d wiggled her way into the Inquisition’s inner circle and after a glancing collision course she was off on her next adventure and he was left to acclimate to her abrupt return to his orbit. As before, he spent most of it furiously working, but unlike before, he did not have the lyrium to cushion him when he fell onto his hard mattress at night.

One of lyrium’s gifts was that it dulled pain and emotional distress, heightening one’s focus in their stead. His powers of concentration were now solely a product of his own will and he had never fully appreciated how distracting Lavender Hawke was until he had to contend with her entirely on his own terms. Had lyrium dulled his depth of feeling all those years or had it simply made him more oblivious to his own emotions by smoothing the edges?

Abstinence from lyrium not only exposed his heart, revealing just how sensitive it truly was, it also exposed his memories. He had not appreciated how many memories, good and bad, had been rendered murky and distant by lyrium’s song. Recollections were constantly bubbling to the surface now, triggered by some word or sight or smell, and he marveled at all the small things he’d put to the wayside.

In Kirkwall he’d rarely thought of his elder sister Mia, or the youngers Branson and little Rosalie--ah_, little! _Still he called her _little_, a moniker she despised! Rosalie was a grown woman now, but he hadn’t seen her since she was a child. He now recalled he had once forgotten about her entirely. A Gallows lieutenant idly asked if he had any siblings and Cullen, distracted and irritable in the hot sun, had curtly responded he had two. It was not until evening he realized his mistake and even then, given the choice between redeeming the oversight by penning a letter home or plunging himself into the endless work of the Gallows, he chose the latter. He chose duty, as he always had.

For many years his siblings had been shadows, growing shorter as his days in the Gallows grew long, but when he stopped taking lyrium they gradually rose to stand tall in his memory once more. A scrap of leather reminded him of his first--and last--ill-fated horseback riding lesson with Branson, who would always be the superior rider. A stack of books holding up the corner of his desk stirred a memory of finding his meager few books hidden away under Rosalie’s tiny straw mattress and her angry declaration, when confronted, that he read too many silly books when he should be playing with her instead. And how could he forget how fiendishly clever Mia was at the chess board? As time passed, and the last of the lyrium left him, their games sharpened in his memory until he could recall specific moves and small victories, his boyish glee at unexpectedly taking a pawn or forcing her to reconsider her strategy, if only for a moment.

Unfortunately, it seemed there were memories the lyrium had stolen that would never return. There were notable gaps, particularly at times of stress or when his dosage was increased. He remembered very little of the chantry in Greenfell, and even less of the three apprentices he’d injured before he’d been sent there. The lyrium stole away memories of personal hurt, but it also took away memories of hurting others. For a templar in a place like the Gallows it was a convenient salve.

After Hawke’s return he found himself dwelling on their time in Kirkwall. Instead of defensively pushing the memories away, as he had so many times before, he embraced his reminiscence, willed himself to remember, watched as the tapestry of his life slowly but surely knit itself back together. He internally winced as he recalled their early conversations, the cloaked language, the subtle double meanings. “Mages cannot be treated like people, they are not like you and me,” he’d told her, “They are weapons. They have the power to light a city on fire in a fit of pique.” At that she’d simply inclined her head and agreed to his requests, as he’d known she must, because he had demonstrated his leverage and intent.

After all that, how could he possibly be surprised when Hawke declined to be frank, evading the most basic personal inquiries, even after they were intimate? He marveled at his entitlement in those early years. Her assistance had not been requested, it had been _expected_. Potential rejection had never factored into his plans, and when lyrium’s haze was lifted he had to admit it was because he well knew she had no choice. She would always do as he asked. He had no intention of arresting her, but the possibility always simmered silently between them. He could change his mind at any time and they both knew it.

There were times he was tempted to return to lyrium, if only to cleanse his palate of his own idiocy and insensitivity, but reclaiming his memories and his past meant accepting all of it, the good and the bad. This was the man he was. He could not improve, become more, if he pretended otherwise. As draining and demoralizing as the process was, it was necessary, and so he mulishly pushed forward, allowing his mind to freely roam the painful landscape of memory as he lay awake in bed at night, his head throbbing, his throat eternally dry. He had helped and he had hurt. What was important now was that he do better.

When he had a rare moment to himself he sometimes stole away to the makeshift rookery in the Chantry. It was pleasantly dim and peaceful; the birds put him at ease. There was a raptor among the ravens, a beautiful peregrine falcon named Malcolm who delivered correspondence on Varric’s behalf, and Cullen had taken a shine to her. Leliana taught him how to earn the bird’s trust by being quiet and respectfully averting his eyes. These things came naturally to him and in time Malcolm would willingly take his arm in exchange for a good neck scratch. Her talons were thick and sharp, more so than the ravens, but his leather gloves provided adequate protection. He found it curious Varric would use a hunting bird to deliver messages but he’d heard ravens had difficultly navigating the smog from Kirkwall’s foundries. Raptors could find their way, even if flying blind.

Cullen was stroking the back of Malcolm’s head with two fingers, enjoying a moment of quiet, when Leliana said, “We need to know what has happened to the Grey Wardens.” She’d been watching him since he offered his arm to the falcon but in a distant way, as though lost in her own thoughts. She had been pushing for a formal line of communication with the Wardens for some time. There were rumors of a Warden in the Hinterlands but until they located him Hawke was their only contact with the Order. Letters to Vigil’s Keep had gone unanswered.

Leliana lifted Beatrix to a stand and began tying a message to her foot. “Perhaps you could encourage the Champion to confide in us.”

“Hawke has her own timeline,” he said. “I’ve never managed to hurry her about anything.” In truth, he was not sure if Hawke trusted him anymore.

“Don’t underestimate the value of your shared history,” Leliana said. “If you spoke to her she might open up.”

He provided a vague answer that was evidently unsatisfactory, because during their next strategy meeting Trevelyan asked, “Do we know for certain the Champion has Warden contacts at all? I appreciate her willingness to assist but after researching the Wardens I wonder if our trust is misplaced.”

Of course, this question had been primed for him. Leliana was always working behind the scenes. “Hawke’s word is good,” Cullen said. When Hawke lied it was an easy, careless thing, but in that meeting she had been particularly careful with her words. She was not lying to them, not yet, but she was definitely withholding information. “She’s waiting for something.”

Trevelyan frowned and dabbed her nose with a handkerchief. “Well,” she said. “I understand there is a real Grey Warden in the Hinterlands, a man named Blackwall. We must get to him before someone else does.”

“I wouldn’t worry about competition, most people avoid the Wardens on principle,” he remarked dryly. Many were wary of the mysterious Wardens because of rumors of an ancient Right of Conscription that allowed them to recruit people against their will. At Kinloch Hold he’d overheard Enchanters telling the apprentices dark tales of the Wardens plucking mages from the safety of the Circle and forcing them into service against the Darkspawn. Cullen suspected conscription was rare. He only knew a few Wardens but all had joined willingly. Before the Wardens vanished there had been reports that they were heavily recruiting from areas most affected by the war. The Wardens clearly were not above taking advantage of the situation, but they were not marching about forcing innocent civilians into military service.

“The Wardens have an interest in preserving the Veil,” Trevelyan said. “Now the Veil is torn and they are nowhere to be found. It can’t be a coincidence.”

She didn’t need to convince him. He had also been privy to Leliana’s persuasions and, of course, the Spymaster was right. They needed to investigate the Grey Wardens if only to have a clearer picture of the military forces in play. He reviewed the area on the map, his eye briefly drawn to Hawke’s purple flag near Redcliffe. “In several days we will be sending a unit to safeguard Horsemaster Dennet’s ranch and build an outpost. We can spare a few soldiers to make inquiries.”

“We should not delay,” Leliana said.

There was something in the tenor of her voice, a hint of personal concern, and once again a figure from his past sprang abruptly to the forefront of his mind. Warden-Commander Solona Amell materialized just as he’d last seen her, bearing the Order’s winged griffon on her chest. Leliana had traveled with Amell all those years ago and had helped slay the Archdemon, and he’d come to understand obliquely they were in a romantic relationship at the time. Perhaps they were still together. Regardless, Leliana wasn’t just concerned about the Wardens, she was concerned about Amell.

“Are you worried?” he asked. As soon as the words were out of his mouth he felt the weight of Trevelyan’s presence. He did not want to dredge up this past in front of her. He added, “Of course, the sooner we locate Warden Blackwall the better. A threat to the Wardens is a threat to us all if there is another Blight. I will have the unit march without delay.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Leliana said.

Trevelyan glanced suspiciously between them, and under other circumstances Cullen might have been amused at the narrowing of those sharp gray eyes, but this time it merely unsettled his stomach. The very last thing he needed was Trevelyan poking around any farther back in his past than she already had and asking even more inappropriate questions.

When the meeting adjourned he stayed behind to verify the map markers, as he always did, for he could not bear to have even one unit or agent misplaced and endangered due to his own carelessness. Leliana melted into the shadows, only to return when Trevelyan was, presumably, safely occupied elsewhere.

“So, you and…” he began, unsure how to proceed.

“Yes,” Leliana said. It seemed to him her expression grew subtly guarded. Little doubt asking after Amell reflected poorly on him, but he had to know.

“How… how is she?” he asked, finally. He still thought about Amell from time to time, fleeting and in passing, but he had not uttered her name in years. He was trying, and failing, to focus on the route they’d mapped out for the squadron, which veered close to Lake Calenhad and so many old, terrible memories.

“I do not know,” Leliana said. “When she last wrote, she mentioned the Orlesian Wardens had disappeared without explanation. There were rumors they all heard the Calling and went to the Deep Roads. Solona intended to put her own research on the Calling on hold to investigate. I have not heard from her since. I expect it is too dangerous to write now.”

“The Calling?” he asked.

“At the end of their lives, as the Wardens succumb to the darkspawn taint, they begin to hear the Archdemon’s song. It is customary to retire to the Deep Roads to battle the darkspawn until death.”

He was taken aback. A person like Solona Amell, who had fought so bravely and sacrificed so much, should not meet such an end. After all these years he still carried the naive belief that, having survived the Archdemon, she would have a happy ending, an ending befitting a true hero. “Sweet Andraste,” Cullen said. “Leliana, I had no idea.”

Leliana smiled; it was thin, without humor. “The Grey Wardens are a secretive group and few outside the Order understand their plight. They are much like the templars in that regard.”

Of course, it benefited the Wardens to keep such information secret. It would be more difficult to recruit members if people knew all Wardens were ultimately doomed. If Amell lived long enough she would one day march to the Deep Roads to meet her end. His mind drifted to the other Wardens he had known, Alistair and Anders. He was not sure what had happened to Alistair, but Anders would have met the same fate had he not chosen to make himself a martyr.

The destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry was a horrific act of terroristic violence and Cullen would never pardon it under any circumstances, but the knowledge that Anders had a death sentence hanging over his head did change Cullen’s understanding of the situation. Perhaps that was part of what Hawke meant when she said others could not understand Anders as she did.

Hawke had also said the Wardens were convening in the Deep Roads due to threat of a schism. If a large number of Wardens heard this Calling and knew they would soon perish… what did that mean for the Order? If their order was anything like the templars they would need strong leadership to prevent the rank and file from succumbing to chaos and desperation.

“Hawke’s report confirms what you know, then,” he said.

“So far,” Leliana said.

Thank the Maker Hawke was not a Warden! His stomach twisted slightly at the thought she too might suffer this Calling and be forced to die alone in the dark. Was this why Hawke allied with the Wardens? To help her cousin Solona weather the crisis? “Leliana, I’m sorry,” he said. “It must be difficult. For you both. I…” Not knowing what else to say, he lapsed into uncomfortable silence.

She smiled at him and it was genuine this time, warm. “Thank you, Commander. I do not think Trevelyan understands what it is like to know someone you love must go into danger, and that the only way to help is to stand back and have faith.” She adjusted one of the pins on the map and added, “Varric’s reports from the Hinterlands are good, very thorough. Hawke is a talented agent. When she says she will return soon I believe her.”

Normally the strategy room, despite being closed and dim, was comfortable for him. He was in his element puzzling over maps and reports, determining how best to accomplish their goals and protect their people, and he had a good rapport with Cassandra, the Ambassador, and the Spymaster whatever disagreements they might have on particular points. In this moment, however, memories of Amell stirred latent anxieties; the stone walls seemed to be pulling in, pressing down on him, and the flickering candles were too dim. The cramped room and stone walls were too much like Kinloch Hold. He excused himself, but found no relief in Haven’s bright sunlight. There were no stone walls to press down on him here, but the weight around his heart remained, solid and immutable.

He did not stop his mind from going back to that place. Terrible memories, long-buried under years of lyrium use, crawled from the ruins to shamble before him. He recalled watching the Wardens leave the Tower and his growing resolve he would join them and leave all the horrors he’d experienced behind. He’d nearly sorted out how to approach them when Leliana reached to take Amell’s hand, and at that simple touch his heart clenched like a vise, anger and desire blended so thoroughly the emotions were indistinguishable. The intensity of it terrified him. Leliana had offered him kindness and water when he was prisoner. To feel such anger towards her now… It was clear all those days--weeks--months--held prisoner in the Tower had changed him, had wrung out whatever decency he possessed and tainted him forever.

With that realization he held back and watched Amell depart hand-in-hand with Leliana, understanding there was no other place for him. His place was with the templars, keeping watch over mages who might be blood mages, who might be possessed by demons and abominate at any moment. He’d committed himself to the Order and now he would keep that commitment. It was his responsibility to make sure a mage uprising like this never happened again, to ensure no one had to endure what he and his friends had suffered.

Cullen took the muddy path to the training field, pretending not to hear a smattering of giggles from a group of Sisters as he passed. The cheerful sound made him inexplicably grim. He was quite aware many people in Haven found him attractive and considered him eligible, but if they had any idea what sort of man he was…

No, there was no time for unproductive thoughts. Goodness did not materialize out of thin air, it was the product of hard work and effort and he had much to do. He brushed the thoughts aside as smartly and neatly as he brushed aside the flap to the officers tent. Captain Kelding moved to stand and he gestured for her to remain seated. She inclined her head instead.

“Commander,” she said.

His customary early morning headache was beginning to settle in, the familiar, dull pounding moving along his scalp to his eyes. He eschewed his chair in favor of standing, taking the first parchment from the day’s business and holding it up to read. Standing with his chin up helped the headaches, the nausea too.

“How are the templars settling in?” he asked.

“They are worthy soldiers, as one would expect, but they have not integrated as well as we’d hoped,” Kelding said. “They are suspicious of our officers. Understandable, considering what they’ve been through. Perhaps it was just as well we were not able to recover the officers at Therinfal.” She cleared her throat. “Begging your pardon, ser.”

“I understand,” he said, simply. Once a superior officer had abused their authority it was difficult to regain trust the trust of the rank and file, if not impossible. He intended to promote a templar from within their ranks but the timing would be sensitive. He knew all too well how difficult it was to establish authority when subordinates believed one’s rank had not been rightly earned. Meredith had promoted him quickly--much too quickly--and it had taken many years for him to earn the respect of the templars he led as Knight-Captain of the Gallows. He would not put Ser Barris or any other potential officer in that position if he could help it.

“If we’d known we would be integrating the remaining Templar army we might have made allowances,” she said. Few would criticize the Herald openly, let alone in his hearing, and he suspected this was the closest Kelding dared. In his younger days he would have swiftly tamped down even a whiff of insubordination but he now understood officers must be allowed moments of frankness to air criticism and feel as though they were heard, provided the criticism remained within the chain of command and was not sown among the troops.

“We will manage,” he said with a sigh, content to let his second interpret this as she would.

The Herald had indeed gone against his advice when she elected to conscript the remaining templars and disband the Order. The plan was to recruit the templars as an allied force. Cullen was not sure if Trevelyan had changed her mind on the spot or if she’d intended to disband the Order all along. She had been quite eager to explain it to him after the fact. The templar leadership was in shambles, the only surviving officer, Knight-Captain Denam, in shackles and disgraced. Better to free the templars from the broken Order’s leash and grant them purpose with the Inquisition lest they turn to red lyrium. Her logic was sound, but Cullen had no trouble reading between the lines. He had begun to suspect her time in the Ostwick Circle was not as peaceful as she’d implied and that her relationship with templars was more complex than he’d originally believed. She wasn’t wrong, however. The hostile takeover of the last vestiges of the Southern Templar Order by demonic forces was a devastating blow and the fact the remaining Knights had voluntarily submitted to conscription meant they were overwhelmed and desperate. Better they be given time to heal and rebuild while the Inquisition tended matters of rank and structure. The future of the Order could be determined at a later date.

“Have Ser Barris report,” Cullen said, when a messenger ducked into the tent to deliver a bundle of parchment. The messenger bobbed her head and vanished as swiftly as she’d arrived.

Cullen scanned the missives, pausing when he saw one in Leliana’s familiar, sprawling hand.

_Not all templars at Therinfal? Reports Fereldan Circle not abandoned. Send a raven?_

The Fereldan Circle at Kinloch Hold was not like other circles. It was located within a fortress in the middle of Lake Calenhad that could only be reached by boat, making it more isolated than most, save perhaps the Gallows in Kirkwall. He’d heard it had only become more insular since he was stationed there. Had Knight-Commander Greagoir’s Circle remained intact or had it been overrun a second time?

Abruptly Cullen was inside the pink barrier field on bended knee, looking up to see Amell in the blue armor of the Wardens, her expression inscrutable. Cool, collected Amell, always stoic and calm, even when he begged her, _kill them all for what they’ve done. Kill the mages, end it now before it’s too late…_

It was as though there was an abrupt tear in his memory, and the face of the real Amell was replaced by that of the False Amell, the taunting, cruel face that had dominated the many interrogations he’d endured while prisoner. It had been some time since the False Amell had visited him in his waking hours and the change caught him off guard.

Cullen had collected several mental touchstones over the years and he instinctively reached for one now: Hawke’s strong hand on his shoulder. He visualized Hawke looking him in the eye on the eve of the Rebellion and saying, _You can do this_.

Not we. Not I. _You_. You can do this.

He focused on her reassuring blue eyes, the firm hand on his shoulder, and the memory grounded him. His mind cleared. Cullen exhaled.

“Ser,” Barris said.

Cullen wasn’t sure how long the templar had been standing there. He cleared his throat, taking a moment to allow the pink field to fully recede from his vision. “Ser Barris, good,” he said, placing his palm on the table to ground himself further. He consulted his copy of the map spread on the table, then said, “Ser Barris, I would have you lead a unit into the Hinterlands tomorrow. We are preparing an outpost near a ranch belonging to Horsemaster Dennet, who will be supplying the Inquisition with mounts. We have received reports of a Grey Warden in the area, Warden Blackwall, and you are to make contact with him.” Cullen tapped the area near Lake Luthias. “He may shed some light on the disappearance of his fellows. Once you are confident the area is secure report what you have learned.”

“Yes, Commander,” Barris said, bowing. “I have a request, if you will hear it.”

“Speak.”

“I wish to bring Ser Jory with me.”

“Is there a particular reason?” Cullen asked. They were stretched thin as it was.

“He is the youngest among us, promoted to Knight only weeks before the Lord Seeker summoned us to Therinfal Redoubt. He…” Barris hesitated. “His faith has been shaken, Commander. I fear he believes his oaths were a mistake, but he is a Knight now and has tasted lyrium--there is no going back. I want to show him we can still serve the Maker and make things right.”

“Very well,” Cullen said. “You may have him. Dismissed.” As the tent flap fluttered shut he looked through the missives given. He paused when he reached a report in a neat, sloped hand. He’d once believed this was Hawke’s handwriting but he now knew it was Varric’s.

They were scouting Redcliffe Castle. The Champion was, to quote Varric, “Doing the two things she does best, making friends and killing people.” Cullen almost smiled in spite of himself. This was no doubt a bit of narrative flourish on Varric’s part, as Hawke’s predilection for preserving life was well-known. Varric went on to say there was a rumor one southern Circle still stood but he did not lend it credence, adding, “Why would anyone stay in a Circle if they didn’t have to?” Cullen skimmed the remainder, intending to read it more thoroughly that night, but his eye rested on a small drawing on the backside of the parchment. The ink was slightly smudged, but the symbol was clear: a hawk.

He ran his gloved finger lightly over the symbol. He had not seen it since… He paused, realizing he had not seen the little hawk since Lavender became Viscount. Previously it had adorned all her correspondence, but once she took the throne it was absent. Of course, that was because the Viscount did not write her own correspondence, such matters were handled by the Seneschal.

He paused, for something was nagging at the back his mind. Hadn’t he seen a little hawk once? Just once, a small hawk in the corner of a blank sheet of parchment. It had been delivered by the dog, and he’d been so preoccupied over how the Viscount’s mabari warhound had gotten into the Gallows he’d paid little attention to the page she’d dropped on his desk.

It was such an inconsequential memory, muddled and from a difficult time, and there so was much work to be done he allowed it to pass. He turned to the next parchment and found he was back to Leliana’s note.

_Not all templars at Therinfal? Reports Fereldan Circle not abandoned. Send a raven?_

This time Cullen freely allowed his mind to go back to that place, to the pink field and stones slick with blood, to Amell in stained Warden blues, to the pillow damp with tears and snot, to the rickety boat that had ferried him across Lake Calenhad one last time, to long sleepless nights filled with regret.

Instead of the usual dread welling in his gut he felt something akin to a hand on his shoulder. _You can do this._

He wrote, _yes_, initialed it, rolled and stamped the parchment, and added it to the others. With the next swish of the tent flap, a courier scooped the messages up and bundled them away.


	10. INTERMISSION: Truthful Critique

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen critiques Varric's story.

**Title**: “Truthful Critique”

INT. STORY PAGE - NIGHT

COMMANDER CULLEN and VARRIC are sitting at a small square table on a dark, empty stage, a lone ink pot between them. A single light source illuminates the center of the table and encompasses both. Varric’s messenger bag is propped up against his chair. Cullen is paging through parchment, shaking his head as he scribbles notes in the margins. Varric watches intently. Each time Cullen marks through something Varric winces.

VARRIC

You’re making a lot of marks there, Curly.

CULLEN

This chapter is incredibly busy.

VARRIC

Well, it’s a rough draft and I really just wanted a general opinion and not necessarily a full--

CULLEN

Varric, with respect, this is an absolute mess.

VARRIC

(sighs)

Which part needs work?

CULLEN

All of it. Violet pretends to be the Inquisitor to get close to the evil magister--evidently he had no information on what the Inquisitor actually looked like--and she’s pulled into a portal with time magic that doesn’t make any sense. She glibly joins forces with a second magister--

VARRIC

Yeah, maybe pick one thing.

CULLEN

(pages through it again)

The time magic is the worst part. It’s confusing and unnecessary and it contradicts everything we know about magic. The mechanics are not adequately explained--

VARRIC

Most people don’t know how magic works and explaining it in scholarly depth is outside the purview of this story. The time magic is a plot device for the story I want to tell. Don’t read too much into it.

CULLEN

Violet encounters several agents who have been imprisoned in cells overgrown with red lyrium, where they have been kept for the past year. They spent the past year agonizing over Violet’s apparent death and are somehow still alive despite--

VARRIC

You’re not reading carefully, that’s explained!

CULLEN

The intent of these scenes is to reinforce how much the other characters care for Violet, but she only just met most of them. Scenes of this nature would have much more impact later in the story.

VARRIC

Okay. That’s… reasonable, actually. Go on.

CULLEN

What you’ve done to Sister Blackbird is just ghastly.

VARRIC

I’m pushing the character to her limit, showing what happens when someone is hardened and their faith tested. That’s how you get good fiction.

CULLEN

Be that as it may. This section about the Inquisition attempting to siege the Castle goes on for pages. Does the Inquisition’s repeated failure warrant so much ink? Can’t Violet simply find a note?

VARRIC

I want the reader to appreciate the fact that in spite of everything, Commander Callum never stops trying to rescue Violet and the other agents. He never gives up.

CULLEN

Why would he throw away the lives of the troops like this? The fortress is too defensible. He says so himself.

VARRIC

You’re missing the point.

CULLEN

Am I?

VARRIC

(leans forward)

I’m starting to think you might have had literary aspirations of your own at one point and now you’re taking it out on me.

CULLEN

Don’t be ridiculous.

(Scans the next page.)

Varric, there’s so much despair in this.

VARRIC

Does that bother you?

CULLEN

(sighs)

No. I mean, yes, of course, but no, sad stories have their place.

VARRIC

Would you like it better if Violet and Callum get a reunion kiss at the end of the chapter?

CULLEN

(reading, distracted)

It would be hollow. The characters are clearly not ready to resume a relationship yet.

VARRIC

So you think they’ll get back together?

CULLEN

(still reading)

I’m not even sure where you’d start fixing all this, to be honest. If the Venatori can travel back in time what’s to stop them from preventing the Breach in the first place?

VARRIC

I told you, all that is explained! You don’t like the time travel part because you’re not a careful reader!

(Reaches over the table to grab the pages out of Cullen’s hand.)

Thanks for the critique. I’ll take it into consideration.

(Sits back down in a huff.)

CULLEN

Although… I must say, the banter between Violet and Merrit is excellent. The comedic timing is good, they provide interesting world-building information, and they clearly care deeply for one another. Their friendship is quite touching.

VARRIC

You really think so?

CULLEN

I would hardly say so if I didn’t.

(Pauses.)

Varric, what really happened?

VARRIC

You mean at the castle? You read my report.

CULLEN

Yes. I read a lot of reports. I’ve written a few myself. I know a gap when I see one.

VARRIC

Because in Kirkwall, you covered for Hawke.

CULLEN

I did not ‘cover’ for Hawke--

VARRIC

You wisely omitted details your superior officer might not understand. It’s important to know your audience. Was it the substance of the missions themselves or the fact you were working so closely with a known apostate after Meredith formally closed ranks?

CULLEN

Who is your audience, Varric? Trevelyan? Surely at this juncture you don’t feel the need to hide anything from me. I know Hawke. You would hardly surprise me.

VARRIC

Readers always think they know the characters. Sometimes they think they know the characters better than the writer. You either trust the writer’s judgment or you don’t, Curly.

CULLEN

All I want is the truth.

VARRIC

Is that why you agreed to read my drafts? Do you think there’s some hidden truth here?

CULLEN

(sighs)

I wish you would be straightforward where Hawke is concerned, for once.

VARRIC

Be careful what you wish for, Curly.

CULLEN

(irritably)

I don’t need to be sheltered from reality, Varric. Don’t hold back on my account.

VARRIC

Please. You’re not the one I’m protecting. Do you trust me or not?

CULLEN

(promptly)

Absolutely not.

VARRIC

You could at least pretend to think about it.

CULLEN

I do trust you have Hawke’s best interests at heart, however.

VARRIC

That’s all I needed to hear.

(Rummages in bag.)

So, next chapter?


End file.
